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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728765">the devil wears pink</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelzy/pseuds/cruelzy'>cruelzy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Steven Universe (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Gen, Pining, Post-Canon, Rebecca ripped out my heart and this is my kindergarten attempt, but not by much, maybe a year or two, mutual pining...? we shall see, no beta we die like men, to put it back together with spit and bandages</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:22:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelzy/pseuds/cruelzy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Steven is Steven, and you are persistent. (Vice versa.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connie Maheswaran &amp; Steven Universe, Steven Universe/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>182</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Peach Converse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i seriously need to stop starting new fics when i have others to finish but who's gonna stop me</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"....it was a fluke."</p><p>"No.. ? I'm quite sure I… "</p><p>Silence. </p><p>"Listen—" </p><p>"Right over there...up and off the floor—" </p><p>"<em>Listen—"</em></p><p>"—at least two feet in the goddamn air-you—you were <em> floating— </em>!" </p><p>Almost as if holding consciousness of its own, the head of ample curls violently bounces as its owner practically leaps across the distance to shove his hand over your mouth. You stand there subdued for one long moment, eyes near boggled out of your head, his breath hot over the flat of your chin, before the absurdity of the situation catches up to your muddy brain and you abruptly jerk away. </p><p>"What!" you hiss, all thoughts of magical hoodoo far from your mind in the wake of this stranger with <em> zero </em>concept of personal space. "What the hell!" </p><p>"You were being too loud!" he hisses back with equal amount of vitriol, sharp eyes flicking back and forth the space the two of you occupied to eventually settle on your indignant shape. "I—" </p><p>The librarian slams her book closed with an audible <em> thwack.  </em></p><p>Such an upfront threat shuts you both up quick, backs pole-straight. Her narrowed eyes are murderous and spitting fire over round metal frames. "<em>Shh</em>." </p><p>More silence. </p><p>Across you, a tired exhale. </p><p>Well, however unwelcome, the interruption does its job in slicing clean through your anger. You can feel the last waves of ire ebbing away as you newly take in the stranger's shadowy eyebags, darkened outlines betraying what latent stress lay underneath; his pinched shoulders; his foot <em> tap-tapping </em> against the carpet—distracted. The next decision comes easy. </p><p>"What'cha looking for?" </p><p>He nearly jumps right out of his clothes. </p><p>What you can only describe as a tidal myriad of emotion passes over his face so swiftly you can barely keep up. He goes from crestfallen, to alarmed, to confused, and finally, when you make no malicious movements, to perplexed. Though inquisitive, his gaze is no less calculating. Unsettling, coming from such an unassuming face.</p><p>Maybe not. Maybe just strange. You return his stare steadily. "I could help."</p><p>Relief slackens his posture immediately. </p><p>"Oh my gosh. <em>Yeah.</em> I kinda need some. Preferably now? But only if you want, obviously. Haaah. No pressure." </p><p>The blocky spew of word vomit punts you hard in the stomach. "Uh-huh," you agree, subtly attempting to regain your bearings. </p><p>Recovery continues to come gradually as you shuffle your way over. You're beginning to tentatively brace for any more personality changes. At the current flying rate, whiplash is imminent. Perhaps this, all along, was how he normally behaved? Endearing? Maybe it's simpler, maybe he'd just been caught on a bad day. Shame. You would know. You know a thing or two about bad days. </p><p>Oh, he's speaking.</p><p>"—the information," he continues, from what you have no clue, swiping rapidly through his phone. Again, you question who he is. Whilst he temporarily remains absorbed in his quest, you glance over his shoulder, peeking at the lone white tag sticking out over the top of his jacket. Veiled by some tight ringlets of his baby hairs, quite difficult to make out... <em> To:Steve….?  </em></p><p>"I can't find it!" </p><p>The bright outburst prods you into remembrance that you should probably be paying attention. But <em> still</em>, there is so much to notice about him. Not in that his features were particularly exotic, or his words alien—in fact, in that aspect he was ordinary as paint—but he is…unusual. Dreamlike, yet firmly anchored in reality. His washed out t-shirt was real. His cuffed jeans. His voice, an accent that you couldn't place. Regardless—real enough. His ordinariness didn't waver, but it was fit for someplace else. He looked like he was from someplace else. </p><p>"So?" Steve asks, his voice maintaining a constant rasp to it that appeared to be more homegrown inflection than any hostility, "what do you think?" </p><p>You blank. </p><p>"Hmm," is your vague reply, stalling for time. The notepad he'd brought up faces you black on white, almost laughably empty. You study it, judiciously. Wondering. Just maybe? </p><p>You go for it. </p><p>"Sure that's the right one?" </p><p>Steve looks at you, then looks at the phone. Then looks at the phone some more. </p><p>"Woops," he sighs. "Good call."</p><p>The new screen he shoves your way is decidedly not as barren: a shakily taken photo. </p><p>"This is the book I want. Recognize it?"</p><p>Bewildered. Yes, <em> bewildered. </em> The atrocious hand-drawn scribble smack in the center may as well have spawned straight out of a nightmare. "A <em> book </em> ?" You can't restrain the lilt of your disbelief. Is he serious? "Who <em> drew </em> this?" </p><p>"I did."</p><p>"…" </p><p>"..." </p><p>"Oh. It's… nice."</p><p>Steve rolls his eyes. </p><p>Plucking his phone back from your sheepish hold, he tucks it into his jeans pocket and rocks abaft on the balls of his heels, scrutinizing your face. Whatever conclusion he comes to has him lifting his eyes skyward once more, exasperated. </p><p>"Okayyy, so you weren't listening," Steve states, not unkindly. There in the twitch of his lips lies an edge of playful reprimand. When you open your mouth to deny the accusation, he interrupts jovially, "but it's fine. Book's called, 'The Rise and Death of Politics.'"</p><p>"Fancy," you mumble. </p><p>"Yeah," agrees Steve, blowing air into his cheeks. "She mentioned how impossible it was to find so, y'know, 'figured it should be a surprise gift for the next time we meet but it's <em> impossible to find</em>. I visited every bookstore in the past state! Zip! Nada!"</p><p>Fixing him an unbelieving look, your eyebrow hikes. "Every bookstore. Really."</p><p>The only response is a shrug. </p><p>"I'm efficient."</p><p><em> And lovestruck, </em>you think. Affection had virtually rolled off his tongue like liquorice. </p><p>You consider him. </p><p>Sometimes one just had to know where to look. "Sure there's no copy online?"</p><p>"If it was that easy, do you think I'd be here?" </p><p>You peer at him. Half bent over the one phone, your foreheads are nearly touching. "Well…"</p><p>"On second thought," he says, "don't answer that."</p><p>"I just—" </p><p>"I said don't answer it."</p><p>You snort. Steve's eyes narrow. </p><p>"Are you gonna help or not? Because all I'm hearing is a whole lot of not-helping."</p><p>Oh, he's begging for it. "'Whole lot of not-helping,'" you mock, puppeting his pretty mouth with a floppy hand. "I'll show you <em> help </em>." </p><p>And without so much as a glance to see if he'd follow, you take off. </p><p>After a brief second, the soft pitter patter of his peach converse trails behind. Confidence surges through you. If he notices the sudden pep in your step, he doesn't comment. </p><p>Further and further into the monotonous shelves you delve, ducking past tacky, ornate decorations and advertisements into the darker section of the store, where the musky smell of old paper becomes prevalent. Fewer bodies, so the ferocious pump of the air conditioning sets a rampant shiver atop your shoulders. Not for the first time that night, you wish you'd brought a sweater. Familiarity marks your determined path succinctly, so it's no time at all before you breach the non-fiction division, pausing right in front of the high arching rectangular label that reads <em>Politics and International Relations. </em>All around, heavy drapes sit atop the low-cut windows, splotches of brilliant red bleeding through the velvet from the lampshades out on the street. When Steve speaks again, his face is bathed in the light. </p><p>"I came back here already," he deeply murmurs in your ear. The red makes his brown eyes appear to glow. </p><p>Tapping the side of your jaw mysteriously, you deign not to answer, instead swerving harshly to the left and heading for an inconspicuous little corner next to the water cooler. Two small circular tables rest against the brindled wall, a few chairs neatly tucked in, the others haphazardly strewn about the area. </p><p>Now you can hardly say you understand others well. Surely enough you don't always recognize certain meanings or interactions that you know one more socially assertive would, but you recognize surprise. And boy is Steve surprised when you drop to your knees. </p><p>"Wh—!" he exclaims, then seeming to remember where he is, lowers his pitch to a concerned whisper. "What are you—?!" </p><p>"I registered for classes late this semester, so I ended up stuck with an English at 7pm," you begin, letting the hallmark irritation of a tired college student trickle into your cadence as you shamble forward on your elbows. Steve audibly inches closer when your head disappears beyond the darkness underneath the table. "It's just the one, so every Tuesday, after class, I stop by Benny's next door for a hot chocolate then head on over here. There are these lackeys that stick together for group projects and they never—ah!" </p><p>Steve retreats quickly when you re-emerge, looking overtly unsure whether or not to help you to your feet and genuinely bothered by it. You make the decision for him when you rise with no trouble, dusting off your knees. He blinks dumbly at the books in your hands. </p><p>"They never put stuff back," you finish, tucking the books against your chest and using the forearm of your sleeve to wipe dust off your chin. Thereafter you unceremoniously drop the precious cargo on the table. Steve… stares. You try again. "Usually if the staff hasn't shelved the books, and they're not on the table, and there was nothing on the chairs when we got here—" </p><p>"They fell on the floor," he breathes, gingerly inching past you to shuffle through the paperbacks. You don't need to see to know exactly when he finds it, a boyish, gleeful smile stretching wide over his cheeks, <em> The Rise and Death of Politics </em>glaringly plain in large black letters as he turns the volume over in his hands. </p><p>When he twists fast in your direction, you swear there are literal stars in his eyes. </p><p>"<em>Yes! </em>" </p><p>The world spins. </p><p>Dazed, you find yourself tight against a soft chest, sturdy arms locked around your biceps and bringing you in tighter. There is too much all at once. His lack of body heat, your nose pressing into his clavicle, the hard edge of the book in his grasp jutting uncomfortably into the sponge of your side, right below your ribcage. Oddly enough, you couldn't have been farther from caring. When last had you been hugged? When last had anybody reacted to you, and not prone or lame in its averageness, but revolved around your orbit, reflected your banter: and so zealously too? His touch tangled your mind into loops. And the scent coming off of him—salt-bitter but fresh, pleasing, like the dry wind at the beach. Like the sea and its spray on the pier—</p><p>Steve sweeps back, abhorrent. </p><p>"Sorry," he cringes, his voice breaking. "Geez."</p><p>You are positively stupefied. "Um." </p><p>If possible, he cringes more. "<em>Sorry. </em>"</p><p>Cautiously, you smooth down your shirt. The sea is still brushing past your cheeks. </p><p>"Hmph," you sniff. "I'll say. Touch<em>y</em>."</p><p>Your theatrics do not elude him. He smiles, relieved. </p><p>The smile falters when your eyes flash. </p><p>"I know a way you could make it up to me," you speak with deceptive casualness, slowly stacking the remaining books. </p><p>Steve squints at your hands, at your face. Within seconds the furrow in his brow clears—oh no, he's one of those <em> smart </em>ones—and he turns right around, heading back to the checkout without a word. You desert the books to scramble after him. </p><p>"Please?" </p><p>He's adamant, you'll give him that. "Please what?" </p><p>But so are you. </p><p>"Oh come on, man.You were <em> floating. </em> " Like hell you're going to let it go. Your twelve year old self would never forgive you. Your <em> current </em> self would never forgive you. " <em> Pretty </em> please?" </p><p>He shrinks in on himself, seeming a pinch away from trying to disappear into the crowd. Yeah good luck. For one, there were a whopping five other people in the store. Next, the guy was a great blinking beacon—what with his neon pink jacket and his wooly hair that seemed to get bigger the more you looked. He runs an agitated hand through said fluff, groaning. </p><p>You switch tactics like lightning. </p><p>"What are you, chicken?" </p><p>Steve throws you an incredulous glance over his shoulder. </p><p>He shakes his head to himself, chuckling under his breath. "<em>That's </em> not going to work." </p><p>Plan A it is. "I literally saw you."</p><p>The poor boy looked like he was aging a hundred years because of your nagging. "It's late, you're exhausted—" </p><p>"You telling me I look terrible?" </p><p>Eyes wide and panicked, he swivels with his hands raised defensively. "No no no that's not what I was—you don't— " </p><p>You must have been grinning like the Grinch because he leveled you with the most unimpressed glare you'd seen from him thus far, heading to the desk. </p><p>You say nothing while he rings up his purchase. Nothing when he eyes you suspiciously, nothing when the cash register opens and closes. At last, when the librarian turns to bag the book, you whisper conspiratorially, "Is it because I'm a Muggle?" </p><p>Something between a moan and a laugh lodges in his throat, garbled nonsense escaping his lips. The librarian eyeballs him disdainfully, handing over the merchandise. You're wearing him down, and you're doing it <em> gloriously.  </em></p><p>"So?" you ask at the exit, hopeful. </p><p>He pauses in the arch, a hand flat against the door. He takes a deep breath; he grips the bag. "Sorry," he says finally. "I really have no idea what you're talking about." </p><p>And you might have believed him too. </p><p>Those earnest eyes were just so honest, so kind. </p><p>If not for the way his smile stretched just a little too tight at the corners. If not for the minute stutter in his speech, as if the mere act of lying physically injured him. </p><p>"You know what?" You decide. "You're right."</p><p>He blinks. "I am?" </p><p>Then, backtracking, "I am." </p><p>You smile gently. He can't help himself, "wait, I am?" </p><p>"Yes," you coo. "It is late." Party animal you are, out and about at 9:30 pm. "I just need to go home and get some rest."</p><p>You might have lifted the weight of the universe from around his neck. "Yes," he says, mollified. "I mean, yeah, goodnight."</p><p>"Goodnight."</p><p>He hovers. </p><p>"Really, though. Thank you," says Steve, wholeheartedly. "You were a big help. I owe you."</p><p>His puppy eyes are blinding. You almost feel bad about what you're going to do. </p><p>"No problem."</p><p>The door opens and closes with a soft jingle. </p><p>For five whole seconds, you wait. </p><p>Then you push the door ajar and step out onto the sidewalk. </p><p>Steve is a lone figure already ten feet down the walk, worn out shoes scuffing on gravel, busy hands fumbling absentmindedly with his pack. When you step out, he stiffens, eyes snapping to yours with a movie-worth level of disbelief. You wave, deliberately mild. He gawks. </p><p>You fish out your phone and fiddle the password, lazily strolling towards him. Man oh man. </p><p>"You're following me?" he asks when you bridge the gap, but it is more of a demanding statement and less of a question. His hair is silver in the moonlight. His eyes, though, are…pink? Spooky. </p><p>"Down, boy," you drawl. "Maybe this is my way home too? You ever think about that?" And to think, you were never usually confrontational. What was it about this young man that dragged out this side of you? </p><p>He faces you head on. "Is it?" </p><p>Boy, he is bold. "Nope."</p><p>To no one's surprise, he walks away. </p><p>You: on his heels. The back of his head hypnotized; it was pretty, like a rose. <em> How strange</em>, you think, but the comparison had popped into your head almost as if it forced itself there. Even stranger. The moon dips behind the clustering clouds, shrouding the path in pitch black and slowing your footfalls for greater precision. Steve is gaining land. </p><p>As though he can hear your thoughts: "You're not gonna catch up!"</p><p>"Okay!" you yell in return. </p><p>"... I'm leaving!" </p><p>"Okay!" </p><p>He hesitates only briefly before rounding the corner. </p><p>The wind moans low through the trees. Their slender, swaying shapes loom over your head like the gnarled, ominous creatures of a fairytale. </p><p>"Oh but it is awfully dark and desolate out here," you muse into the silence. "Why, anybody could be lurking. What a miserable last resting place for a defenseless traveler. All alone." </p><p>Predictably, a parade of swift, flustered steps reappear from the bend. </p><p>"Well now I have to make sure you get home safely, don't I?" He hedges, buzzing back and forth but never quite halting completely, like the insipid bob of a Windows screensaver. Then his nose scrunches, as if he was recalling a sour private joke. "Spinel would have a field day with you," he says belligerently, more to himself than you. </p><p>Seeing that you aren't in the least cognizant of who he refers to, you frown, uncertain whether to be miffed or nonchalant. In the end his dilemma is too enjoyable to stay upset at. </p><p>"How responsible," you tease, tongue between your teeth. </p><p>Something sudden and bitter creeps across his countenance, twisting his lips. "I've had to be." </p><p>Er.</p><p>The hairs on the back of your neck stand at the abrupt change. There is a rather troubled cadence to his tone that speaks to something deeper, darker, some elaborate backstory perhaps. He leers, unreadable. The darkness lounged in the slits of his pupils flares, illuminating them like blazing pools of acid. </p><p>To be perfectly honest, it's<em> freaking you out.  </em></p><p>"Steve?" you venture softly, heart hammering in your chest. </p><p>He springs up at least three feet mid-air, clapping a hand over the yellow star sat on his breast. You jerk involuntarily in response.  </p><p>"Are you trying to kill me?!" Steve squawks.</p><p>Of all the— "<em>Me?" </em> you shriek hotly. "<em>You're </em> the one who <em> keeps—"  </em></p><p>"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," he interrupts, loud and wild, his brows flying up and off his face. His hands flail. "<em>Steve? </em>" </p><p>Panting, you struggle to find words. "Yeah?" you try, voice small. "Isn't that.. Aren't you…?" He blinks rapidly, incomprehensive. </p><p>Oh god. </p><p>Sparks short-circuit your brain. A thousand thoughts rush before your vision, none of them pleasant. You'd assumed! That's all you were good for! Assuming! Embarrassment swells, melting your bones to mush. And further, your damaged ego liquifying along with the rest of your skeleton, sweating straight through your pores to engulf your palms. Oh god.  </p><p>Throughout your extremely visible meltdown his warm gaze watches, amused. </p><p>He has mercy. "How?" </p><p>You feel very compelled to explain yourself. "Your jacket," you mutter hastily. "The tag. It…I thought…" <em>God</em>. </p><p>"It's okay," he assures, and it is sincere. He is so very, very sincere. </p><p>Your lip quivers. </p><p>"So?" </p><p>Not-Steve cocks his head. "So?" </p><p>You finally lift your mortified glare from the white trim of his jacket, confused. "Aren't you gonna tell me?"</p><p>He smiles bemusedly, eyes twinkling. "Well you haven't asked."</p><p>Forget sincere. He's the <em> devil.  </em></p><p>Gritting your teeth, you slap a palm to the bridge of your nose. When you chance a peek through the spaces of your fingers his intoxicating gaze remains, immovable, tying your gut up in knots.</p><p>You swallow your pride. "What's your name?" </p><p>"Oh… Steven." Steven laughs, a dazzling smile dimpling the corners of his mouth. "Hello."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Rolled Sleeves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the fictional state of Delmarva is a large peninsula on the east coast of the United States modeled after the combination of Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia. similarly, the state of Daorgia i 100% made up is a combination of Florida and Georgia. (and the town of Lake View.) </p><p>if you somehow live somewhere called any of these, i am very sorry, but also, i am now your god.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The problem with memories is that they tend to lie. </p><p>Not purposely, but that hardly matters. They wither into hollow vessels of their former glory, mere flashes of heat and fleeting sensation with none of the detail. But they also grow. They run and blossom and fatten their stuffing with each retelling, with each <em> quite possibly </em> and <em> surely there was </em>until what is real and what is fake interlock paths and unravel. </p><p>The boy you met has unraveled. </p><p>Into what, depended on the hour. Or the mood. Or the black of your sleeping television, like his hair. But his hair had been brown. No. Yes. Like the tacky gum in the shelves by the cashier, fruity popped pink irises around blown pupils. </p><p>(Well that's just ridiculous.) </p><p>But there had been pink, somewhere, hadn't there? </p><p>Or had it been black? </p><p>This is unimportant. </p><p>Lake View is hot, and uncomfortable. You are hot, and uncomfortable. They came in droves. People of all ages and sizes swarmed the property with excitement clutched to their chests, colourful brochures and pamphlets fanning their ruddy flushed faces and puffing up their pouches while they gazed wide-eyed at the buildings as if they were at Disneyland and not your dumpy university. An entire weekend this all-inclusive extravaganza was due to run for, swooping up the apathetic high-school seniors and the anxious parents and the star gazed toddlers and just about all else who strutted right into the establishment's wide open arms like it wasn't actually a gaping mouth with gnashing teeth. And there were, of course, the caterers that flocked to the presence of so much fresh meat: the pandering clubs and sororities, the free popcorn sales and mini-game entertainment sprawled across the lawn, prizes enticing at the minute cost of dollar bought tickets. </p><p>The monstrosity of capitalism? Fascinating. The jam-packed cesspool of bodies blocking your every step? Not as much. </p><p>Lake View is uncomfortable, and hot. Maneuvering in the festering heat is slowly frying your every brain cell to grits. <em>Pop! </em> There goes last week's lecture. A petulant groan rises to the surface of you, the small sound oscillating through the human sea. </p><p>You just want to get to the cafeteria. Is that so much to ask?</p><p>"Hello!" </p><p>Great. "'Sup," you grind through a tight smile. The beaming young lady in front of you returns your expression tenfold, poster board displayed valiantly in her right hand and her left already expectantly extended in your direction. Her body wedges your path in a manner specific that any fleeing would be starkly obvious, not to mention socially inept. </p><p>You sigh and take her hand. </p><p>She shakes it firmly. "If I may," says Kaitlynne, with the perfect amount of forward humility beneficial to a spokesperson, "could I interest you in taking a quick look at our club? I'm with the Gardening Society of U.D." You follow her gesturing palm to a nearby semi-crowded plot of plants and shrubs. Several kids and the occasional adult flock about. In the mud. Uh huh. </p><p>"Y'know," you say, "I'm not actually—"</p><p>"I don't have a green thumb myself," she intervenes, whispering as if the two of you were divulging secrets. "You're new here, right? You don't need any experience. The interactive isn't so much of…" </p><p>Her voice dissolves into white nothing against the relentless backdrop of noise. Your focus zeroes in on the space above her nose, somewhat absentmindedly. She was serious. It's one thing to be balefully ignorant, but the outright disconnect on her face fills you with a slow-building numbness that freezes your smile on your cheeks. That, and how your heart slightly twinges in your chest. </p><p>Kaitlynne had sat in the row over from you for three entire months this past summer. Sure, you hadn't thought her to remember your <em> name </em> but…</p><p>
  <em> But what? Exactly what had you thought?  </em>
</p><p>There is a breeze behind you, but no relief. Just humid air rushing over the top of your head. Kaitlynne blinks large doe eyes plastered with mascara. "Are you okay?" </p><p>"I'm fine. By any chan—" </p><p>".......Hello?"</p><p>"Sorry," you murmur, stunned. It couldn't be. No. </p><p>Her acceptance of your apology barely registers as you dip your head decisively to squint through the glare of sun. <em> No. </em> </p><p>Surely there were others with that frame, that build. The hair was trademarked, yes, but not wholly rare. Surely your exhaustion had finally made its way to your brain and was weaving deceiving shapes before your very eyes—</p><p>There is an evident moment where his gaze slides over you. An indifferent beat of time when you are just another mindless face, an insignificant number in the crowd, but he returns. He does a double take and wheels straight back. </p><p>Recognition lit up his eyes brilliantly as they trained on your slack-jawed surprise. He remembered. And it was so, so gorgeous to be remembered. </p><p>Steven smiles, sweat shining on his forehead and his hands in the dirt. He beckons you over.</p><p>Everything flips. What is hard softens, the irked bunch of your brows vanishing without a trace. Kaitlynne lets out a high bleat resembling a sheep as you hip-check her to get around. </p><p>Second meetings generally weren't as impressionable as firsts but they are mighty well important enough in your book. Steven, for the second time, is golden. Every bit as profound in presence as you remember. The imperfect traces of your fragile memory can't even begin to hold a candle to the authentic mystery in the flesh wiping perspiration from in-between his eyes. Laughing now, at something on your face maybe. Some substantial feeling beyond your comprehension is pulling you closer, tentative curiosity mixing with elation to generate the rampant static prickling on top of your skin. Steven: welcoming. Not in the artificial lights of the bookstore or the black of night pressed around him but out in broad open daylight, sun on his smooth tanned skin and effortlessly in high spirits, his lazy smile cloudless, fair. He is beautiful. </p><p>Oh. Oh no. </p><p>"Hey," Steven greets. </p><p><em> Foot, </em> please <em> do not meet mouth. </em>"...Wearing so many layers in this weather is a crime." You halt at his stooped figure. Anxiety skews your humorous tone teetering. </p><p>Steven. You met him at the bookshop. He’s at your school. Steven. </p><p>He peers up at you from under the frizzy loops of his hair, one eyebrow amicably raised. With careful consideration of his grime covered fingers he shunts off his varsity jacket and ties it about his waist as a peace offering. You sniff derisively.</p><p>"I didn't know you went here," you say, side-stepping the olive branch altogether and focusing instead on literally anything else than his newly exposed arms. Boy howdy is the sky blue. That a mermaid-tail curled up on someone's ankle? Flowers. Pretty. This isn't happening. </p><p>"I don't," says Steven, pushing depressions into the soil with the meat of his palm. </p><p>You might have won a thousand Oscars the way you force your disappointment not to show. Right. Steven is from someplace else. When it's clear he isn't going to elaborate, you squat down to his work space, chucks squelching in the excess runoff. Then again, half the people roaming the grounds aren't homebase. They came for the obvious reason of interest, however, so maybe…. "G.S.U.D convincing ya?" </p><p>He shifts at the question, ghosting his thigh <em> right </em> by yours. You wish more than anything on the planet he would put that damn jacket back on. </p><p>"No." He smiles, and his eyes smile too. "But they looked like they needed help."</p><p>You nod along. You fuss with the plastic aglets of your dirty shoelaces and wonder if the boy beside you is some sort of Saint. </p><p>Would properly explain his supernatural act weeks prior. Against your better judgement you glance up to the top of his fritz to make sure no translucent disk of divination hovered. Steven follows your line of sight, goes cross-eyed for a second, before deeming it unimportant. In the next breath he veers forward with one smooth, quick motion. <em> Okay. </em>Your swallow is thick and cold at the sudden proximity. Steven smells like the surrounding pansies. Like the copious snap-peas swimming in the loamy soil. </p><p>He holds your gaze. His frown screws solemn with the tremendous weight of a terribly tragic revelation. </p><p>"Not to mention," he says seriously, "they've got lollipops." </p><p>
  <em> Ah.  </em>
</p><p>The raucous chatter of the children hopefully covers up your rather unattractive thunder of a snort. You're not really counting on it though, based on the potent satisfaction absolutely oozing from your grinning neighbour. A glance to the table on your left proves him correct: treats galore. </p><p>
  <em> Two can play at this game, bastard. </em>
</p><p>The lovely thing about attraction is that it gives you adrenaline. "So they do," you prop your elbows on your knees and mimic his comic lean-in, wobbling upon your precarious perch like a rocking ship unstable on the waves. His eyes dart up and down the smug length of you. Any logical inhibition leaps right out the window along with the rest of your common sense when he matches your bravado and cuts the nonexistent distance yet again. Recklessly you’re yanked up and dragged into his orbit, drunken from the secretive curve of his mouth, the childish mischief zipping back and forth between the two of you like livewire. His piercing eyes are on yours still, scorching through you like an inferno. You can't shove down the obnoxious fluttering in your stomach, the pounding in your ears. Can't stop yourself from muttering, "wanna share one?" </p><p>"For starters, you'll need gloves."</p><p>If not for Steven's quick reflexes, you would have face planted beautifully. </p><p>As it is, the hand around your bicep remains the only anchor between you and the ground. You'd all but forgotten about Kaitlynne. Her shadow stretches tall and unforgiving over you, blotting out the sun and carving a flaming outline around her body that highlights her high cheekbones. The satanic glee in her voice is amplified exponentially. Not entirely undeserved, considering.</p><p>Still. You right your balance in craggy junctures of <em> stop, stop, go, </em> spluttering like a rusty old motor<em>. </em> With the same one hand Steven squeezes. He overpowers your movement and steadies you to a full stop with ease<em>—</em>not cruel, just <em> strong. </em>Your face grows hot. </p><p>"Woops," says Kaitlynne, but her cat-like glower trains you with a knowing smirk. Your face grows hotter. "Didn't mean to scare your pants off." She tosses a pair of disposable gloves in your general direction before lifting the bowl of treats and giving it a trusty shake. "Work first though. <em>Rewards</em> after. Whatever those may be."</p><p>You manage to snatch the projectiles out of mid-air, barely withholding the bloodthirsty urge to snap your teeth. <em> That little— </em></p><p>"One plant, right?" Steven says cheerfully, obviously sensing your rising irritation and de-escalating the situation before you flew off the handle. You eye him nervously. Nothing on his face betrayed that he'd understood or even heard your last words, but that alone gives you literally zero assurance. Frankly, you don't know him well enough to recognize what hidden subtexts his different faces portray. Your colossal mess-up could have landed anywhere from inside his ears to over his head. "We can do that."</p><p><em> Let's get this over with</em>, your sulking brain snarls. </p><p>With that lovely attitude, (and Steven's assistance), the two of you wrap up in no time. Stupid as it is, you feel a tiny burst of accomplishment over concluding the meager task. </p><p>"Careful," Steven speaks up as you put on the finishing touches. "Pull back the excess soil just a tad. The roots need to breathe." </p><p>"Yeah?" You easily correct your mistake, examining him closely. "You're good at this."</p><p>He blinks. He rubs the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding your scrutiny. "I guess? You could say I've got some experience." </p><p>"Uh—" </p><p>Right on cue Steven jolts at the no doubt horrid sensation of muck sliding down into the back of his shirt, wiggling frantically. "Gross! Aw man!"</p><p>Peals of laughter leave you at his plight.   </p><p>"S'not funny."</p><p>"Sorry."</p><p>"Cut it out," Steven warns. </p><p>A cheeky grin. </p><p>Immediately, you're dodging a fistful of well-aimed soil. </p><p>"Alright, <em>alright</em>! Sorry!" </p><p>When he looked ready to pursue you jumped up and out of reach, shaking out the pins and needles in your calves. G.S.U.D's candy bowl was already half depleted, baptized by previous sweet-aholics and enticingly innocent in the glimmering sun. Steven was right—they <em> did </em>have lollipops. </p><p>Just to spite, you swipe enough to stuff your pocket full.</p><p>"That wasn't nice." </p><p>You twitch; he'd been closer than you thought.</p><p>"Never said I was," is your retort, deftly unwrapping your prize and shoving it between your teeth. "<em>Mm.</em>"</p><p>His stare bores into the side of your head. Into your soul. </p><p>Fine. You relinquish the stolen goods. They clunk to the bottom of the bowl happily. "Apparently you are," he casually remarks, as if he hadn't just guilted you to death.</p><p>The conversation lulls. Steven picks his own sweet. You realize suddenly that you don't want to leave. </p><p>But there is no reason to stay. Your hands lock, downcast. The misshapen flakes of your cracked nail polish jeer at you from where you mope: <em> there's plenty reason, actually.  </em></p><p><em> No. Stop that. </em> </p><p>Steven is Steven, so he acts. "How about a tour?" </p><p>You lift your head. Steven meanders in an O-shaped aim around the table, sun-burnt face upturned to the sky, deep in thought. Distant. You wonder if he recognizes the impact of his gravity, his kindness that seemed larger than himself. You check him for the halo once more, just in case. </p><p>Then his question registers. "The whole campus?" You ask. "That would take forever!" </p><p>Disappointed. "Oh." He scratches his cheek. "Well it's about time I left anyway."</p><p>Your mind sports a convoluted array of cartwheels at the speed of light. More like, actually, an obstinate cog of wheels wrangled to comply into sensible thought. Awareness is a douche of cold water. <em> Stars, only you would sabotage yourself— </em></p><p>"I'll walk you to your car," you garble incomprehensibly around the pebble of sugar in your mouth. "Only fair, right?" </p><p>Steven huffs at the memory of his begrudging escort the other night, re-donning his jacket. He hasn't moved, however. Well. Since you're already this far. "I was heading to the cafeteria. Mind grabbing a bite on the way?" </p><p>His eyes sparkle. You feel intensely that you've made the right choice. "Sure."</p><p>The walk to the cafeteria revamps your seemingly abysmal curiosity. Conversation flows again, the gravelled path congregated with such moving walls of people you have to amble closer to each other so as not to constantly yell. However fun, the small talk isn't too revealing, to your dismay, taking instead to light-hearted storytelling. Steven is a strong personality—buoyant and assertive. Dynamic, if only a bit awkward. <em> Not used to talking</em>, he explained. Then, considering, <em> To regular people anyway.  </em></p><p>Whatever <em> that </em> meant. </p><p>When you asked, he only laughed dismissively, waved you forward: <em>nevermind. </em></p><p>The midday sun soon departed, taking the stuffy noon and its heat with it. The car park spotted with folks here and there, but was mostly empty. Your tummy was content, your mouth sticky from the soda you'd enthusiastically shot-gunned beforehand—to Steven's delight and near reverence. Sleep drags your feet substantially against the littered ground, your lids heavy and lethargic. </p><p>"Shade," you groan with a lavish flourish. "Oh my <em> precious</em>."</p><p>Steven traipses beside you, finishing off a veggie burger. "It's not <em>that </em> hot."</p><p>"I'm dying. I'm dead. Tell my children I loved them."</p><p>"Will do soldier."</p><p>"Thanks, Danny."</p><p>Steven chokes on the burger. His voice cracks as it wont does, adorably. "<em>What?</em>"</p><p>"Going ghost!" You clarify, shooting him an almost imperious side-eye. "Duh."</p><p>"<em>I did not go ghost</em>. I floa—" He detects the trap you've lain out just in time, crossing his arms. "<em>Very</em> funny."</p><p>You stick out your lower lip, pleading, but he relents none. He knocks a loose fist against the hood of The Dondai Supremo the two of you had dallied in front of for a while instead, yawning. "This is me."</p><p>The banged up hatchback resembled an amalgamation of several compact 1980s models, an assortment of stickers slapped arbitrarily onto one of the back windows. One of the stickers reads "DAD ON BOARD." There's a story there, you're sure. </p><p>You let loose a low whistle. </p><p>Steven actually <em> giggles.  </em></p><p>"Yeahhhh," he coughs. "We've been through some stuff." He taps his fingers on the steel bonnet, thinking. He seems to come to a decision. "Actually, I'm heading back on the road in.. I dunno...three weeks? Just passing through here." </p><p>"Lake View?"</p><p>"Daorgia."</p><p>Your eyes widen. "Oh. Running from something, huh? Or towards something?" </p><p>Steven only smiles that mysterious smile he'd given when you'd tried to pry with the Danny Phantom act earlier. That's that, then. Out of his many idiosyncrasies one remained certain: If Steven doesn't want to answer something, he won't.</p><p>The silence bounces. </p><p>"Do you want my number?" you ask. </p><p>What are you doing? "Call me up if you need to know anything about this plain ass town." <em> What are you doing? </em>"And or state. Though I can't guarantee my knowledge past about," you gesture to the east horizon vaguely, banshee screams going off in your head like a fire alarm, "forty miles in that direction."</p><p>He purses his lips. You consciously bleed as much platonic intent as possible into the atmosphere, extending your phone graciously. <em> Please don't question this. Please just take it.  </em></p><p>Three things happen at once. </p><p>Steven reaches for the phone. (Phew.)</p><p>Steven drops the phone. You scream. </p><p>The cell hits the gravel, topples over itself on its corners once, twice, before sliding under the car, flat on its case. </p><p>"OH MY GOD!! I'm super sorry!" </p><p>"It's okay! I just—that thing <em> cannot </em> survive another crack—let me—" </p><p>"'It's totally my fault—let me get it —" </p><p>"Look it's <em> fine—"  </em></p><p>And then, against all logic, the combined pressure of your weights on the hood ease the car into motion. </p><p>For a split second the two of you pause completely out of sheer disbelief. </p><p>
  <em> How did I—did Steven?—of course not—is it— it shouldn't be able to—there's no way that should —  </em>
</p><p>Shouldn't this, shouldn't that. <em>Is</em>.</p><p>The car continues to roll back on the small dip of an incline. There is a sharp inhale in your ear. Not that you're listening. Your heart is too busy leaping out of your throat and flopping in front of your shoes, a surge of mad hysteria encompassing you from head to toe and escaping your throat sharply. Your phone was behind the tire—it - it's going to be <em> crushed </em>— ! </p><p>Steven lifts the car. </p><p>
  <em> CREEEAAAKKK.  </em>
</p><p>He crouches. The awful groan and screech of the Dondai resembles that of old rusted joints as its front half raises over his head, supported solely by the plane of his palm. He nabs the phone. He shuffles back clumsily like a crab, he draws to his full height. </p><p>The two-ton vehicle bangs back against the ground with a heavy <em> thud. </em></p><p><em> Jeepers, </em> you think. It is a pathetic attempt against the pandemonium of unadulterated chaos ravaging your mind. You stare, unseeing. </p><p>Steven sighs. </p><p>He transfers the phone to his left hand and crumples up the greasy burger parchment paper in his fist, resigned. "Um. I think there's something you need to know."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Flower Crown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>so let me get this straight</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>Oh boy</p><p>ure running aroundas a little kid</p><p>with all this strength </p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>im not sure I want to know wht your imagining</p><p>dude </p><p>its cursed</p><p>like an 8 y/o He-Man with a baby face but … pink</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>oh my god</p><p>terrible twos but if he hits you hard enough he can actually eject your spleen</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom]</strong>
</p><p>yes but mostly no</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>most if not all of my powers didn't manifest until i was about 14. and i wasn't this strong even a year ago? it keeps growing with age i think</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>also the pink stuff was much l8r</p><p>no no no</p><p>u TOLD me u physically looked like a git</p><p>for like a good 6 years</p><p>so tht means u were still baby</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>hmm </p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>nope don't remember saying that</p><p>lies</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>:)</p><p>u think uve won… </p><p>guess what Universe </p><p>i have receipts</p><p>
  <em> [image sent]  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [image sent]</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom]</strong>
</p><p>:(</p><p>read and weep</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom]</strong>
</p><p>ure mes</p><p>
  <strong>[danny phantom] </strong>
</p><p>wait WHY is that my contact</p><p>…. </p><p>no idea wht ur talking about</p><p>
  <strong>[dannyphantom] </strong>
</p><p>i have eyes</p><p>yeah well unless uve got a pair virtually looking over my shoulder rn we're done here</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>okay</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>u asked for it</p><p>WHAT </p><p>HOLD ON FR???</p><p>WAIT</p><p>IM IN THE BATHROOM PLEASE</p><p>STEVEN</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>ACKJ</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>i was KIDDING obviously I can't do tht</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>?????????? </p><p>ure gonna give me a heart attack one of these days stg</p><p>how the hell am i supposd to know </p><p>u literally told me you're a half rock from space jc man anything is possible for me now</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>gem</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>half gem</p><p>tomato tomahto</p><p> </p><p>The toilet flushes with an obnoxious swish. </p><p>In the mirror, your exhaustion is cleanly apparent. The hulking reflection prowls sloe-eyed and vindictive, as limp as the dampened purple violet fibers stretched out loose between your sensitive toes. Darkness is plentiful. Light, too, comparatively, flung short and stocky under the door from the neighbouring bedroom, revealing the thick gloom laminated along the walls, but limited. Subordinate. The phone, against the sink. Room temperature porcelain remains colder than tap, especially with the absence of light, so when you press your forehead into the ridge the hiss through your teeth is of distinct relief. The phone, jumping, blinding, even through shut eyes. Vibration pulsing straight through the sink and up into your skull.</p><p>The kettle. </p><p>Keeping your wits about you is marginally feasible as you shoulder out of the bathroom and saunter into your tiny cubby hole of a kitchen. A few days before? Not as such. </p><p>The dorm is empty. The kettle is weeping great beads of condensation on its slick black surface. You open the cupboard and remove an embellished cup and saucer to set on the desolate countertop. The bakery box atop the toaster crinkles in its shell as you pop free the plastic seal. An overhead bulb twitters faintly in your peripheral vision.</p><p>It's a peculiar thing, being the victim of a shattered worldview, then returning to tea and scones. </p><p>Each time you think the enormity of the wonder has faded, it barrels back into you with the certain ping of a certain name on a glowing digital screen. If you're honest, it's on the better end of fortune that you were not left to sit alone on your revelation. Knife hot disorientation has been steadily replaced with the undercurrent of dull, continuous bafflement. There he was, only mere moments ago, throwing around words like <em> manifest </em> and <em> powers </em> as if it were normal.</p><p>The newness of him, at least, is worn out, scraped off like an estranged lottery ticket as a by-product of your frequent texting. </p><p>And boy do you text. </p><p>Daily. Minutely. Naturally, there had been awkward fumbling at first. The two of you practically stood on individual planets, after all, meekly figuring out how to interact with the other, circling around warily like one would a wild animal.</p><p>Breaking the ice turned out to be immensely easier than you would have thought. Something in you recognized the creature in him. </p><p>Moreover, your cracked screen was a skillful intermediary, serving as a buffer so that it usually felt more like you were chatting meaninglessly to an old friend and less a galaxy blooded enigma. </p><p>Not that you'd had any problem speaking with him before, in person. But, and it's difficult to argue, world-altering truths make things the teensiest tiniest bit complicated. And uncomfortable. In person. </p><p>It helps though, that Steven Universe sure doesn't act like he's anything special. </p><p>You sniff at a sugar cube, adding it to the cup. </p><p>His conversations are more or less exactly the same as any other teenaged boy, if evidently more mature. You still aren't sure if this is a good thing or not. The disconnection between the normalcy in his words and the sheer absurdity of his otherworldliness you've been made privy to often becomes too much to handle. When that happens, and it does, you find yourself staring holes into the hard blue light and drifting somewhere farther, calmer, where your thoughts are not filled of living rocks of any nature, or planetal titans, or Clusters, or faceless ethereal beings that lift vehicles and eat pizza on some distant shore. </p><p>Mostly, you just ignore the texts. </p><p>That never lasts long.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>juysgvt</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>hgdjklo</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>
  <em> typing… </em>
</p><p>look at my tiny cup</p><p><em>[image sent]</em> </p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>
  <em> typing… </em>
</p><p>isnt it cute</p><p>
  <strong>[boy wonder] </strong>
</p><p>ahsjsgfgsuhbbjjkmmkldjsgf</p><p>ok</p><p>u alright dude?</p><p>?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>INCOMING CALL </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Your sip of tea turns into a fiery gulp, singing the roof of your mouth. "<em>Ack! </em>" </p><p>Your hand clenching and unclenching midair, hovering as frightened as a scared rabbit. Your heart, the traitor, fluttering away like the waxpaper wings of a nomadic insect, altogether too eager to desert its cavity. You like your heart! You like your heart very much; making sudden movements would not be advisable. The phone is still ringing. The crumbly lemon scone once intact between your fingers is now an unrecognizable mess of doughy crusts caking your nails and littering the counter with its wide poppy seeds. And the saucer. And the cup of tea: particularly, inside it. How unfortunate. All this within a fraction of a second—you don't take the opportunity to ponder those implications. </p><p>Though your pulse is sky-rocketing, existentialism over a phone call is kind of pathetic, even for you. </p><p>You answer it. "Hello?" </p><p>Muffled shuffling over the line. </p><p>"Sorry," says Steven, sounding far and out of range. "I needed my hands. You don't mind?" </p><p>"Nnnnnnph," you say, intelligently. </p><p>The agreement reverberates scratchy and hollow in your ear, as though he has put you on speaker. It makes no sense for you to be nervous, but you are, obviously. </p><p>More shuffling. </p><p>"Sweet," he replies, closer now. The hoarse honey sound of his voice isn't new, but it isn't completely memorized either, crossing that hazy threshold of familiarity just enough that you are able to match his face to its sound in your mind's eye. "Hey."</p><p>"Hi," you swallow. </p><p> "Uh, what's..up?" </p><p>A short pause, then an embarrassed groan from the other end, long and drawn out.</p><p>Oh dear. It sounds like he rather wishes he could be swallowed up by the ground right this very moment. You're not the only one suffering from foot in mouth syndrome, it would seem. </p><p>Wonderful. "Not much," you say. "Breakfast." </p><p>"It's almost 3 o clock," Steven informs. </p><p>"Breakfast," you repeat. </p><p>A soft punching noise of solid air. The jerk. "No classes?" </p><p>Your face splits apart into something of a fond smile and a frown. A smile, because Steven has always tended to be more interested in your life than his. Ironically enough, his apparent logic-defying abilities only come up when you yourself ask—not on the account of any latent insecurities on his behalf, but out of his genuine indifference towards them.</p><p>Strangeness, in whole, is ultimately relative to the individual.</p><p>Steven seems perfectly content most days, all days, to question, then subsequently listen to your mundane rants about your dorm's faulty thermostat, about the spider that lives in the hole in the wall behind your sofa, about that new so-awful-you-have-to-watch-and-ridicule Netflix series, equally as captivated as if you'd told him you were a trans-dimensional robot from Jupiter. It's cute. Makes you feel…wanted. </p><p>A frown, because it's Spring break. "It's Spring break."</p><p>"And?" </p><p>Overturning the tea-sludge in the sink, you wait for a sarcastic comment. There is none.</p><p>You're thinking there's a misunderstanding here, though you can't imagine what. </p><p>"Steven?" </p><p>"Yes?" he asks. A low humming sound undulates from whatever it is he's occupied with. </p><p>"Did you hear me?" </p><p>"You said it was spring right?" His tone matches your confusion exactly. Which is weird. </p><p>Hold on. "Spring break," you emphasize the words till they are twice their length, the proper noun straining out. "Y'know…no school?" </p><p>A breath. </p><p>Steven's following chuckle is <em> extremely </em>high pitched. "Yes," he says. "I knew that. Why wouldn't I know that? I knew that."</p><p>You don't even try to hide your amusement. "Sure." </p><p>Anyone else and you would be concerned they lived under a rock, but Steven…? The lack of knowledge isn't entirely nonsensical. From what you gather, his home life until very recently was focused on events particularly unrelated to… earthly things. </p><p>Or, rather, the earthly things he'd been concerned about were on a larger scale. As in the, uh, planet. </p><p>When Steven had chosen to spill essentially his whole life story to you in that parking lot, he had conveniently left <em> many </em> things out. You had not appreciated this. Go big, or go home, you'd said, understandably shaken. </p><p>Steven had decided to go home. Literally. </p><p>Anyway, fortunately or unfortunately, you've managed to extract details over time. Gems. War. Life. Death. Love. Out of the countless dangers you learned of, however, The Cluster was the straw that broke the camel's back, shattered its spine, then hit you across the face with its barbed protrusions.</p><p>That is to say, it had you retreating in an extremely panicked fashion from asking any more unnecessarily deep questions. (You are not subtle.) </p><p>Sure, that thing about one of his friends nearly stealing the ocean was vaguely worrying, but the tale about The Cluster left you with a sinking, deadened hollow in your stomach for hours. <em>That was years ago</em>, Steven had texted, when you'd ghosted him. (You are not subtle.) He vehemently assured you the consciousness was, for the most part, good, or verbatim, "agreeable when I ask nicely", but the attached ramifications did nothing to calm you. </p><p>Years ago, on a nondescript day, while you did nondescript things, a single child hundreds of miles away saved your life. Aside from organic Earth zeroing instantly (which would've been concerning) the most haunting part of all was that you would have had no idea why, even as it became too late. Everything would have simply ended. </p><p>The thought makes you feel very, very small. </p><p>Inconsequential as you may be in the vastness of the general universe, though, as of right now there is someone calling your name with all the importance of those burning cosmos themselves. </p><p>You blink hard. "Yeah?" </p><p>"<em>Yeah? </em>I thought my phone stopped working! What happened?" </p><p>Uncertainty grows and when it does joy responds inversely. "Nothing."</p><p>He is quiet for a moment. The dorm is empty. </p><p>"Was I boring you?" he teases eventually, carefully. </p><p>Your lips try to tug. It takes more effort than normal. "No." </p><p>"Well," he starts. Is his voice softer? "I definitely didn't google Spring break, but if I did, and I didn't, it would've mentioned family visits." </p><p>Your nails bite into your palms. </p><p>Steven is not a mind reader. He continues. "Got any plans to see your folks?" </p><p>Your nails bite into your palms. </p><p>"My roommate went down south all the way to the coast," you say. Blood. "It's like a six hour drive but her brother's birthday is over the break I think? I don't know how she does it. If I kept my eyes open that long I'd become a hazard to every other driver very soon, probably."</p><p>You haven't answered the question. Not even a little. </p><p>Steven breathes steadily into the phone. It's a calming sound.</p><p>"Hey," says Steven. "Let's go out."</p><p> </p><p>As it turns out, <em> let's go out </em> is synonymous to <em> do you have any plans? </em> </p><p>It is not synonymous to <em> I want to take you out. </em></p><p>It is not synonymous, either, to <em> let's go on a date.<br/>
</em></p><p> </p><p>This is not a date. </p><p>The café is enriched in the afternoon glory, butter light cutting the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and casting the vicinity in a warm wash of orange white. The oval plates set on the embroidered tablecloth before you are each occupied with two miniature cakes, frosted and delicate. Steven is wearing a sharp tan shirt accompanied by dusty cream sneakers and a light skirt over his jeans. </p><p>It occurs to you that you have never seen Steven in anything other than his regular ensemble of startling pink and black, and so you are glad that you decided to wear the nicest cardigan you own. But not too glad. This is not a date, after all. </p><p>Steven is not eating yet. You are. </p><p>Steven is still sulking. </p><p>He'd shown up absolutely buzzing at the agreed upon meeting place—namely underneath the weathered parapet directly outside Hennington's bookstore—and promptly dragged you off by the hand to some unknown direction. The places that you knew rushed by obscurely. </p><p>His destination was a darling shop at the tip of the corner, moderately sized and gaudily coloured. The CLOSED sign, complimenting, was a mocking, stark red. </p><p>Wrapped up in the hands of excitement, Steven had forgotten one important thing. </p><p>Today is Sunday. </p><p>Consequentially, the two of you had wandered the plaza aimlessly before ducking into a store that wafted a remarkably distracting heavenly scent. </p><p>The tempting pastries dressed in sparkling glass domes around the café initially made you queasy. For many reasons. Most contextually, because you'd already had dessert for breakfast, and by association, lunch. </p><p>All the same, sugar lust triumphed, as it always does.</p><p>Steven's treat, you'd insisted, since he <em> had </em>dragged you obstinately from your hiding hole into the public. You felt no shame in this. </p><p>Currently, the ex-diamond is moodily pushing his miniature cake around his miniature plate with his miniature fork. "We don't really need Sundays."</p><p>You cross one leg over the other.  "Lots of people would probably oppose you on that." </p><p>Steven brings the fork to his mouth. </p><p>Just as quickly as he's upset, he's not. </p><p>"This is good," he says. </p><p>"Aren't you vegan?" you ask. </p><p>"Sometimes," he says. </p><p>You take another bite. Steven balls his napkin. </p><p>"It's really, really loud in here," Steven finally admits, laughing. </p><p><em> Jesus Christ. </em> You were wondering if you should say something. The café is packed to the brim with people, supposedly all late-goers like yourselves, voices climbing high and grating on your ears. A trio of pigtailed brats run by and jostle your chair. </p><p>"Welcome to Lake View," you deadpan. </p><p>Steven brings his thick eyebrows together disdainfully. "What's up with that, <em> Lake View? </em> Lame. What, is there a lake with a good view?" </p><p>You've never held any high level of local devotion, but even your minuscule civic pride won't stand for this. "I don't know," you squint. "What about you? Good <em> beach </em>?" </p><p>"Welllll," he drawls, "there was a <em> city </em>…" At which point he snickers, unable to maintain the farce. You feel yourself smile. </p><p>You set your fork down with tame intent. You stare at Steven. Steven's eyes are soft. His hair is softer in the brightness. </p><p>"I don't like talking about my parents," you say, finally. </p><p>His reply is without falter, "Then we won't talk about them." His head inclines, gently. </p><p>You don't know why you expected anything different. This is the boy, after all, who went out of his way to hold your hand, who invited you out simply because you sounded lonely on the phone. </p><p>The room goes suddenly blurry and hot. </p><p>You press the heel of your palm to your teary eyes, embarrassed. For naught—Steven is deliberately intrigued with the intricate designs on the tablecloth.</p><p>In the time it takes for you to find your composure he cleans his plate, licking his thumb. </p><p>"My dad and I have been through a lot," he starts conversationally. </p><p>You perk up slightly, like a dog. That's.. right. Steven would… He had parental troubles, so… maybe— </p><p>Steven is giving you quite the stern eye. "I love my dad."</p><p>You fidget guiltily. </p><p>He slumps in the chair again, the graveness gone as if it hadn't ever been there. "He's got an old friend who lives down here. She owns that flower shop I <em> tried </em> to show you." His grumbling gives way to honest enthusiasm. "When he asked, she agreed to let me shadow her for a little while."</p><p>"Like an internship?" you ask curiously. </p><p>He snorts. "Nothing that professional. More like I'm just hanging around creepily and watching her work for a couple days."</p><p>He plays with his fingers, strangely anxious. You watch in fascination as a flush climbs up his neck. </p><p>Downright intimidating then a ball of nerves the next second — you don't think you'll ever truly understand Steven. </p><p>"I'm… figuring it out as.. I..go?" He's sweating. Badly. "With the entrepreneur aspect I don't really need a degree, but I think it'd be wise to have one anyway. Won't be registering anywhere soon but…" Career talk has a way of sobering anyone and he settles, cupping his chin. "Business probably. Art, if I can minor." </p><p>"But what about…. " </p><p>"About..?" </p><p>Glancing around swiftly, you bite your lip then half lean over the table with a hushed tone, "What about your.. other stuff? What if someone, or many someones, <em>need </em>you?" </p><p>Steven looks <em> very </em>amused. "I'm not Spiderman y'know," he whispers back, eyes twinkling. "I don't have a secret identity. Relax."</p><p>You stammer, flustered, but drop the code with a huff and a short, sharp hand gesture. "What if the universe needs saving again, or something?" </p><p>Steven raises an indignant eyebrow. "Well, I'd hope not." His expression flickers, and now he sounds almost agitated. "I put a <em> lot </em> of work into the first time."</p><p>…. </p><p>"So…" you wince. "Flowers…."</p><p>He scoffs, but you can see that he's smiling. "I had a greenhouse of sorts. Helping people might be in my genes, but it's kind of from my mom's side of the family. My dad, mostly musical stuff. They're both a part of me, of course, but I wanted something I could call my own."</p><p>"And that's gardening?" Your next words aren't lofty, just curious. "You're sure?" The thought of this superhuman force of nature standing behind a counter and selling a hibiscus is hilarious, but not at all surprising. It… fits him, somehow. </p><p>"Nope!" He beams. His laugh is clear and sonorous, like bells. "I have no idea!" He runs a hand through his hair, blindingly radiant. "Isn't that wonderful?" </p><p>
  <em> ....you're wonderful. </em>
</p><p>You smile softly. </p><p>"Steven," you start, the calmest you've been all day. </p><p>He blinks to attention. Before he can respond, however, you reach forward and rest a hand on top of his on the table, pokerfaced. "This was great," you say, "but I can't hear myself think in here." His hand is cold, unnaturally so. This fazes you none. "The next time you want to take me on a date, <em> I'll </em> be picking the location."</p><p>You allow yourself a deviously brazen grin so that he knows you're yanking his chain, cocking your head to look up at him from under your lashes. "Got it?"</p><p>Steven does something you never would have expected in a million years. </p><p>He blushes. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Garden Gloves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello all. sorry for the delay - i had intentions that came to a bit of an abrupt halt due to ms. corona’s reign. stay tune for the irl dystopia where the “police” allow the actual ku klux klan to walk the streets while i fight for my basic human rights. May we live in interesting times, hmm?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The afternoon you make a fool of yourself crying in front of a boy you barely know, he tells you, "I think you're just what I needed."</p><p>It's darker and lazier in the sky, the nauseating sweetness of the cake having dried its aftertaste on the back of your tongue like a memory. There's a smear of icing by his mouth. The tightness in your cheeks strains torrid from all the dangerous smiling. You never meant to be away from your bed this long but Steven Universe listens, and time sifts like loose sand through your fingers. </p><p>Steven is admitting somewhat shyly that his trips, while soothed by constant communication and intermittent visits, are mostly self sufficient. Initially that had been wonderful. He’d been desperate for some independence, after all, but when the honeymoon phase inevitably ebbed away, his head became a bit...loud. He doesn't say that he's lonely. He also doesn't say that he's glad the two of you hit it off. Not that it matters. You've long since learned to speak bouts of unsaid with Steven. </p><p>The intercom is playing the relaxing voice of some ambiguous radio host over the café speakers. You wipe at your mouth knowingly. He finds the icing. </p><p>"I think you're just what I needed," Steven remarks with a crinkling eye-smile, meaning several layers of things all at once. </p><p>You remember this for a long time.</p><p> </p><p>Wednesday brings with it greater onslaught of early rush-hour.</p><p>Lake View's no New York City but neither is it a sleepy town; small, sure, but excitable—the hustle and bustle of residents fester and crowd like nobody's business. </p><p>Saddled in a wide sunhat and light, breezy attire you shamble alongside the full displays and mannequin-posturing windows, your age beaten cleats click-clacking against the baked ground. They've seen better days. Despite the numerous indulgent swigs taken from your thermos the bulged ache in your throat does not let up. Not since you'd dry swallowed a couple Advils an hour before—whose intended purpose has yet to be dealt with. The persistent headache followed you up from your covers, into the shower, and onto the highway, pounding at your temples and sending throbbing hot flashes behind your eyes.</p><p>Day's barely begun and you're already ready for it to be over.  </p><p>Your pained gaze continuously flicks toward the package cradled in your hand as a tiny treasure. Biting back a satisfied hum, you allow yourself one more greedy perusal before dropping it into the paper shopping bag that bangs against your leg with every step. Later. </p><p>The golden panes in the distance are a welcoming sight.</p><p> </p><p>Stopped to survey the bell at the top of the door you'd entered, you frown. The jubilant ding wasn't unpleasant, but…</p><p>"Louder than you expected?" </p><p>The new voice is warm and sturdy, beckoning your focus from above. You venture further into the room. The coolness of the cozy space immediately differentiates from the sticky heat outside, fastening a delightful breather on top of and inside your stuffy clothes. Then the smell hits you all at once—earthy and crisp sweet, like a garden of cyan flowers. </p><p>Flowers! Vases and pots and shelves of the kind, exploding with prospering vines and fetching blossoms in such variety and colour and staggering abundance it's nearly overwhelming. Some of the pots contain only dirt, others nothing at all. Behind you, the rectangular panes are darkly gold and secretive, displaying none of the fantastic glory from the outside—resembling that of a tinted car window. </p><p>The privacy doesn't frighten you. In fact, you feel... homely. </p><p>Once you have dawdled in your spot long enough, you take your mind off the distractions and direct it toward the woman in front of you. It takes a discomfiting moment to rewind to her previous utterance. The bell. Right. Even then, all you can do is incline your head in response. </p><p>"They all say that," she continues, wholly unbothered. </p><p>The hardened woman leaning over the counter has eyes like shrewd glass and forearms thick enough to pop your head right off your shoulders with one bicep curl. Her shock of vivid orange hair is piled up on top of her head in a plethora of elaborate braids like a basket of flames, her cupid mouth firm and beautifully crafted as all of heaven's forces combined. Raunchy red lips match the seam of her blouse, the buttons of her neat breast pockets—no name tag. Okay. </p><p>She lolls her head into her waiting palm. You feel your spine straighten in an almost Freudian reaction, as though someone had slapped the blunt end of a ruler into your back. What a presence. </p><p>You pick your voice up off the shined floor. "Is Steven here?" </p><p>There is no recognition on her face. She simply stares you down, hulking. </p><p>A lesser person would crumble underneath the pressure. So you do. </p><p>It gradually becomes explicit, however, that she is perfectly capable of watching you crumble and doing absolutely nothing in return. You reevaluate your options. </p><p>"Ah…" Recalling your manners, you offer a hand. "Let me start over."</p><p>A meaty palm grasps yours tightly. You distinctly envision your fingers shattering in sets of threes. </p><p>With as much self preservation as you can muster, you somehow wield a close lipped smile and repurpose the question. <em>Please</em>, you would like to know if there was a helper named Steven around? About yea high, a beloved fuchsia jacket, elusive, annoying, beautiful, possibly your assistant? </p><p>When that fails, you backpedal to rudimentary social skills 101 and introduce yourself, parting timidly with your name. </p><p>Finally, a shine takes to her eye. </p><p>"My, my," she preens, slow and deliberate. "I've heard so much about you." </p><p>Her reply startles you into silence. Unsure of the trajectory this is taking, you swipe your tongue over your lips nervously, but thoughtfully. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. </p><p>It's a good thing you're not a cat. "You have?" </p><p>The grin curling up her cheeks raises the hairs on the back of your neck. </p><p>"She <em>hasn't</em>."</p><p>Blessing in disguise, or perhaps a blight in this case, a familiar voice conveniently interrupts before you can siphon any interesting information. The Universe himself appears from around back, looking faintly humorous but mostly irritated, a thin headband pulling the front of his unruly swath of hair back from his face to flare out halfway up his head, accentuating the latent glamour buried under his features. His eyes shift to your flummoxed form and his expression veers to something you can't pin down, before changing again to an easier, if tired, smile. </p><p>A pinch of material, a snap and a pull, and his yellow garden gloves are removed and discarded into a box at his feet, below the dangling orchids. He rolls his shoulders to alleviate invisible aches and pains. Strides forward a few feet, though not before shooting his boss(?) an exasperated look, which she only hikes her eyebrows at. Then with a dusty slap of his palm, Steven hand-vaults the counter. </p><p>What happens next is odd enough that you nearly miss it.</p><p>But no—you've seen this before. A brief, padded cushion of air billowing his shirt wide like a wind tunnel at an indoor Sky Diving. Gravity subsequently seeming to switch off like a light. Logic subduing to his wishes till he's landing effortlessly on his feet on the other side. It all occurs so quickly and unceremoniously that you have to battle the natural urge to convince yourself you're seeing things. </p><p>The free application of his power doesn't surprise you anymore, but it is still disconcerting. Especially in <em>plain sight— </em></p><p>Steven sidles up next to you, ducking his head and peering under your sunhat as if to find your face, confused at your sudden smallness. You cut a razor sharp side-eye to the resident Flower Keeper. </p><p>His mouth temporarily makes a small 'o' in understanding. </p><p>Only for him to ignore you completely, turning back to his older friend. "We're off." </p><p>He might as well have announced it to an empty room. The woman, needless to say, acts as though his lips hadn't even moved, fixing you with another one of those soul grappling stares that kicks you right into bird-eye focus. </p><p>"Alright, sugar," she says. "You bring him back safe."</p><p>…Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? </p><p>Nevertheless, you nod politely. "Yes ma'am." </p><p>She bristles head to toe with a smile like a predator, full of gleaming straight teeth. "I <em>like</em> this one, Stevey—"</p><p>"See you tomorrow, Amelia!" </p><p>Steven tugs you through the door so swiftly you can feel your eyes being left behind, blinking cartoonishly in your wake before zooming outside to join your body. The loud chime sends a cheery farewell to your departure. </p><p> </p><p>After a lengthy bout of angsty power-walking Steven spontaneously hits the brakes. Then again, that may be on account of your unabashed, drilling stare. </p><p>“She's my dad's friend,” he reminds you shortly, as if that explains anything. </p><p>Now that the pack of devil dogs that were nipping at his heels have disappeared, Steven glances over; and seeming to realize he still has your hand captive, releases you presently. He takes the lead at a calmer pace. His fleeing touch leaves a lingering tingling sensation along the curve of your wrist and over the tops of your knuckles, contrasting against the deadweight of your water canteen hanging like a dumbbell from your fingers. You flex your freed hand, thinking a bit dazedly that maybe you wouldn't mind holding his hand properly again, and the thought is such an unprompted thing, sudden and strange that you shake your head sharply, as if to unlodge it. You don't want to think about that, so you think instead about the grievance in his tone and the easy fondness that held it aloft, proving that his and—Amelia was it?—their banter was just that, banter. A healthy, flourishing relationship lay there for certain. How sweet. </p><p>Blegh. "Do you have any idea where you're going, <em>Stevey</em>?" </p><p>You would have let your lack of response speak for you, but the distance between you and your car is growing enough for it to cross over from funny to energy expending. </p><p>Steven twitches. </p><p>Steven's leg swings out and around, his body pulled along for the ride until he's facing you, ears pink. "Where are we going?" he echoes, sagely. </p><p>He doesn't get his answer for far more than a hot minute, the unimpressed set of your jaw like a brick wall against his pleading looks crawling past the fountain. Mope galore across the pedestrian crossing bumbling into yet another parking lot, and when he sheepishly scoots his butt into the shotgun because, what the hell I'm not a taxi service, Universe, his eyelids drooping in a petulant manner as you take the turn that does not lead to the front of U.D, you finally open your mouth. </p><p>"Into the belly of the beast," you snark, and your reflection bares teeth in the rear view. "Otherwise known as Walmart." </p><p> </p><p>"...Me thinks doth protest too much.”</p><p>"I'll decide when and how I apply my protesting, thank you," you admonish half heartedly, tad occupied in your monumental task of balancing a mountain of groceries while pushing the foot of the creaky door shut with your ankle. </p><p>A wiggle, a slight falter — there goes the key. </p><p>"Do you—" </p><p>"I've got it." </p><p>You don't. </p><p>Steven moves as if to override your stubbornness, but the promise of death in your grimace has him choosing a tactical retreat and heading into your kitchen. </p><p>He'd already put down his set on your counter after neatly removing his shoes, and now examines the bags intently. Distraction, probably, or some other unknown, though less likely. Best not to wheel too much in the area lest your headache completely does you in. </p><p>Another attempt to shift with your weights. "Did we really need this much snacks…?" </p><p>You lock eyes. </p><p>The two of you start laughing. Yeah right. </p><p>After a second your chuckling strains. This time, Steven is much too fast for your arguments, a sturdy authoritarian shape herding you closely against the door frame, swift fingers slipping into the miniscule empty spaces of the handles not already taken up by your own hands and seamlessly relinquishing you of your burden. He tracks back over to his previous spot without breaking a sweat. </p><p>He does other things. You're not sure what. You lean your head against the hinge and do not melt. </p><p>"Told ya." </p><p>You look over. Steven is sipping noisily from a red juice box. </p><p>Oh. That must've been what he was searching for. Tomato juice, you think it was, or as far he was concerned, "heaven in a box".</p><p>He'd been very particular earlier. Shame it fell on deaf ears. "Was that so hard?" he teases. </p><p>"You have a hero complex," you conclude.</p><p>The box crumples like paper. </p><p>Like a draw of a magnet you peer down at the splash of crimson painting your floor, seeping into the cracks between the tiles. Steven blinks, as if he's just as surprised by the strength of his own reaction. "Whoops," he says, misleadingly tame. His thumb drips from where it pierced the juice and exited the other side. "I'll clean that up, promise."</p><p>His other hand is still resting on the countertop. You think about what you would have said if he had erected property damage instead. </p><p>Well, could-have-beens hold no salt in your wallet. "Woah," you balm," I was just kidding."</p><p>Your pulse is normal; so is the electricity warming your spine. He's somehow already on his knees with a few tears of your paper towel, but his eyes don't leave yours for a second. You put effort into not being <em>too</em> visibly rattled. </p><p>You crouch, pick up your keys, and lock the door. </p><p>Steven's shaky grin has disappeared by the time you turn back around but it's burned into your chest, white and unnervingly sharp against his apple cheeks. </p><p>This won't do. </p><p>Your arm does a wide sweep over the room. "Right. Sit anywhere, Stevey."</p><p>The nickname has the desired effect. What conflicting shade to his visage dissipates, righteous indignation surging to take its place. </p><p>"You're not gonna let that one go are you?" His mouth downright flats. The abrupt change is hilarious. "I—" </p><p>"And by anywhere, I mean the couch," you interrupt. He glares. Not a bad glare as they go, but the angry little pout accompanying it is making it particularly hard to feel daunted. The sterner he looks the harder you bite the inside of your cheek. </p><p>Not hard enough. Steven throws up his hands and makes a bee-line for your sofa, collapsing face first. </p><p>Your diversion has proved to be a double edged sword. Happiness is pushing all that ugly stuff out your head. "Watch out for Jerry," you jest.</p><p>Steven mumbles something incoherent in the depths of the cushions. </p><p>Shaking your head affectionately, you grab a Coke from one of the open bags, holding the sweaty ice cold label just to hold it. Waiting for the light bulb. </p><p>"Jerry?" </p><p>Bingo. "I told you about him." </p><p>Steven's chin tucks in. Those lovely gears are stubborn, but turning.</p><p>While they toil and grind, you digest the sight of him in your space, the objective grand picture of this. To call it…’home’ would be a stretch, but the dorm is yours, no matter how temporary. And there is something about the role of a host that makes you clinically aware of how he exists in it. Every familiar thing disrupted and altered just by his place in relation. The acrid tomato vapor saturating the air from the spill earlier. His jacket half flipped up over the well-upholstered couch like a violent streak of colour against the plain furniture. Your breath whispers in your nose. In the still, quiet hum of the room, Steven bear-hugs the pillow you've favourited all semester, and a domestic haze settles like warm milk in your bones. </p><p>The culprit of your mania hooks up in a flurry. "The <em>spider</em>?” he chokes, “you <em>named it</em>?" </p><p>"Ouch," you say. "Done? Any more interesting tidbits to insult my pet with?" </p><p>"Not sure… Jerry… qualifies as a pet." </p><p>"Does too."</p><p>"Does not."</p><p>"Does too."</p><p>"Does too." </p><p>He’s an actual child.</p><p>"In my house ain't it? Anything in this space is mine."</p><p>"Is that so." His voice is the driest you've ever heard it. The two of you are coming along wonderfully, you think. "What about your roommate?" he pushes. </p><p>".....Anything in this space is mine when Dahlia isn't here,” you say.</p><p>Which she isn't. Which he knows. What is he aiming at?</p><p>Steven elbows the cushion, props a loose fist under his chin. The impish mischief yet to be wiped off his face is heightening, and directly proportional, your apprehension. His grin grows. </p><p>"<em>I'm</em> in here," he chimes tartly, acute gaze pinning you in place. Steven looks at you like how he talks to you, like how he texts you, as though you are grand and profound and infinitely worthy of undivided attention, always. Even here, barefoot in your ratty ripped jeans. It’s many things. Overwhelming for one—disquieting, another.</p><p>Right now? It’s just not fair. </p><p>Hooded eyes sparkling like embers in a fireplace, Steven asks, "am I yours too?"</p><p>Your heart twists like a crushed stress toy. </p><p><em>Stars</em>.</p><p>Any and all retorts dry up immediately in the front of your shock. ‘Shock’ unveils itself as one gold medalist's impression of Lady Liberty, embellished with involuntary bug-eye. A living statue. A yelp suppressed into a muffled hum under a tongue heavy as cable wire, thick between your teeth. </p><p>Steven’s boyish cheek falters when you fail to respond to the punchline. You scramble to work open your jaw. </p><p>“‘course," you stammer, fumbling for that laidback banter you'd lost so quickly. Joking. He was joking. The innocence is crystal clear in that gentle fidgeting of his—<em>of course</em> he had to be an oblivious flirt. Why wouldn't he be? </p><p>Right about now would be a perfect time to shove your fist in your mouth. But there's that scorching laser beam of concern trained your way and you know you won't be able to weasel your way out of this one that easily.</p><p>Suddenly, all you feel is weary.</p><p>"You're not immune to the law, wonder boy.“</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“You put your pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us.”</p><p>Steven regards you for a long moment.</p><p>“No,” he finally says. “I don’t. Doesn’t run in my jeans.” </p><p>This guy was going to be the death of you. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Lake View</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[blood, temporary injury]</p><p> </p><p>  <a> Surf Curse — Freaks </a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You startle awake. </p><p>You’re alone. </p><p>Disorientation renders the room lopsided. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you remember the migraine—that frigid pressure behind your eyes with its thousand pins and needles—and now, the stark absence. It’s not often these days that you indulge in a good nap without due reason. Reasons, perhaps, like the pleasant comfort of darkness, or of passing time without the ambient noise from the stretch of public lawn outside: sharp, tubulous, crooning, succumbed to a desolate place where one doesn't have to <em> think. </em></p><p>These are things you know well. </p><p>But first: immediately and completely, not the slow ease. You didn’t wake. Something woke you. </p><p>The weighted blanket thrown over your shoulders reluctantly shifts in tow as you twist upward and straighten in one languid motion, easing your numb, half-bent leg slowly out from underneath you with no small measure of discomfort. </p><p>Next, delayed sensations rolling in one after the other—</p><p>palpable, hushed whispers of corporeality over your still-waking mind rolling steady like a stream tractor</p><p>the arm of the couch, the floor under your feet,</p><p>linear arteries driven straight up through your toes</p><p>and a scent like tomato and wood with a dragging undertone of fraudulent sour that stubbornly tugs at your memory, like the clinging fist of a child. Sweat. </p><p>This one is important, somehow, but the something that is your bladder is important as well — arguably more so. Most likely, the actual reason for your consciousness. </p><p>The box below the television reads 3:45 PM. The screen itself is dark and silent.</p><p>In passing, the steadily blinking stove clock further insists the day is still bright baby blue. Not that you’re any the wiser. Bleary eyed, smoothie brain following two-step sluggish behind your waking— <em> bathroom, c’mon move it—</em>body and a kernel of sweet corn—<em>pitted? killer oh oh spit— </em>lodged between your molars. </p><p>God, it’s <em> dark</em>. With the overcast sky and the drawn blinds and your blown light bulbs you trip about a dozen times on your way to the bathroom.  </p><p>Locked.</p><p>…..Dormitory doors are old. All the basic furniture is, really: weary, practiced creatures touched by dozens of Ghosts of Residents Past. Egg yellow curtains. Sink: chipped porcelain. The most recent home-owners had scratched their names in crowded chicken scrawl right underneath the stem of your rusted shower head, directly adjacent to a series of suspicious stains. You try not to think about it. </p><p>This door in particular is no different. Easy to maneuver. Was. Should Be. Creaky old thing yeah, just like it’s cousin o’er by the entryway, but never jammed, never—</p><p>Steven. </p><p>
  <em> “I would like to state for the record—“ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Mitts off my Pringles—“ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “—that I did not sign up for this—” </em>
</p><p>Right. Your startled mind takes a step back. And another. Steven was here; you’d snatched him up from work and held fast to the bridle, steering him alarmed and laughing over your welcome mat like a silver-tongued mare and you’d</p><p>
  <em> The television is switching between stations at the speed of light, a multicolour brigade of light showering the room in its various hues and tones.  </em>
</p><p>grabbed your own funeral procession by the lapels </p><p>
  <em> His nose is crinkling. "Bah," he replies, like an old man, but stops spread-eagling your couch to give you some room, patting the empty slot invitingly. </em>
</p><p>you’d</p><p>
  <em> His voice is tumbling out offended and wobbly simultaneously, gooey reddened eyes glistening wetly under the TV fluorescence at the mushy romance co-stars on screen in each other’s arms. You do have the heart to shove him in the shoulder, catching your fingers in the rough fabric of the heavy throwover, patting and crooning softly.  </em>
</p><p>and </p><p>
  <em> Steven is shrieking,  </em>
</p><p>He was <em> literally on the ceiling. Back plastered to its sloping surface like a helium balloon freed by child's whim—floating and bumping suitably—except his spine is taught and his nails are digging into the lumpy aggregate, shavings of dry paint falling onto your floor. The shriek is comically growing in pitch. If he had fur, it would be bristled all over. </em></p><p>
  <em> You swiftly intercept Jerry’s malicious path with a well timed spray of Sprite Cranberry, sending the couch spider bristling back into its hidey hole. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Steven slackens like a marionette cut loose, breath whooshing from him in one fell swoop. </em>
</p><p>then you’d... what? Knocked out halfway through Rocky Horror Picture Show? Went to snooze town drooling on one of the sweetest people you know. Nicely done.</p><p>
  <em> ( Steven Steven Steven broad-chested and smelling of shampoo and the surf, even this far inland—) </em>
</p><p>...Yeah, this was definitely going to come back to bite you in the ass some day.</p><p>Bladder. Still an issue.</p><p>Two knuckles rise, then a sharp rap on the door to crack the silence, unsuspected, the only noise aside from your breaths the whirring of the air conditioner and the yowling of the wind, “Steven?” </p><p>There’s no answer. </p><p>Another moment, brief, to weigh the cost benefit of risking being annoying versus giving your shiny tiles a brand new yellow power wash. </p><p>You knock again, louder. </p><p>The door remains very there and very closed. Which doesn’t matter in the goddamn slightest, because you <em> live </em>here, alright, you know exactly how to jiggle the handle just right to bypass the janky lock, and you do just that.</p><p>...you will be doing just that after you circle back to the living room to be completely sure he didn’t have headphones in or something. </p><p>Steven’s phone is on the coffee table. </p><p>“I’m coming in,” you tell the empty living room, and the thick beige block of door, then in succession, apprehensively, threateningly,  “please have pants on,” your thumb and index twisting the knob at an angle sharply down that tapers left and—</p><p>And you barrel in, and Steven doesn’t whirl ‘round screeching, flustered like a maiden in duress, big hands pressing you into the jut of the sink. Steven sits small on the floor against the tub, hunched over, drawn up eyes bright—glossy as a deer in headlights. </p><p>Your mouth shuts so quickly you feel the teeth scrape.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Steven isn't all there.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Sometimes the smile is bitter. Oft his winking eyes will coast unseen, holding your gaze yet truthfully peering straight through you, as though in the same minute elsewhere. Universe isn’t a cruel person by any means. What he is, though, is unmoored. </p><p>Here, where he seems so far away. Save what expression blankets his features, growing paler still, and spirit-thin. </p><p>His head dips further under the weight of your scrutiny. Distress cools tight in your chest. </p><p>“Are...“ oh but that sounds muffled and decrepit even in your own ears, submerged in water. Your throat clears round a hard swallow. “Are y...” </p><p><em> Are you alright, </em>you don’t finish, but the words hang in the air nonetheless, subtle as car crash. </p><p>His mouth twists. </p><p>Drawing a careful breath, you sweep closer to his prone figure. Cautionary. Gentle.</p><p>(For...what?) </p><p><em> Days </em> spent gallivanting around this strange waltz of a friendship, taking up space, drawing dangerously near only to touch-and-go at the first sign of being burned. There’s a method to this. Logically, you tell yourself, exposure cannot lead to pain if the subject is held at arm's length. And yes, <em> yes, </em> you are terrified of true intimacy—because what does that even <em> mean</em>? What could you do? Nothing. You know his favourite colour, how he takes his coffee, the rich divots of those deliberate scowls, purposeful, vacant stares, every which direction his hair fluffs up mussed and inviting in the cool of day, how excitement spoils across his face, brightening his entire body, hands spread in quick, open motions, the way unfiltered sunlight turns his eyes the warmest hazel you’ve <em> ever </em> seen— and you could do nothing. </p><p>You have a leathery couch and an old whistling kettle. Steven is having a bad day. </p><p>“Hello,” murmurs Steven.</p><p>You turn on your heel and leave. </p><p>Upon your return, the air is something narrowly off-tilt, contemptuous. Steven follows you from the door back down to the cold tile. His eyes glimmer white in the bathroom light.  </p><p>You meet his gaze, “Merry Christmas!” </p><p>Despite it being clear that he hasn’t actually parsed what you said, his hand abruptly snaps up to intercept the pouch you so cheerfully hurled at his throat. The catch is perfect, clean and firm in his palm, and, really, quite unfair for your libido. Then the instinct passes, and his brows furrow. </p><p>The hybrid blinks twice, tilts his chin to a slight and says, slowly, “Spring.” </p><p>“Happy Valentines Day!” you amend, without missing a beat.</p><p>“Where are my flowers?”</p><p>“...You’re such hard work.”</p><p>Steven thumbs the drawstring. “Roses. White. Adelaide D’orlean.”</p><p>The easy banter would be almost normal, if not for the blank chill under his voice, and his face, covered in tears.</p><p>Pulling together all of your idle experience in Comforting Friends proves, as expected, positively lacking. You warily resolve to just be yourself. “Aren’t you gonna open it?”</p><p>Steven does a very good job of not moving one inch, scanning the pouch as unscrupulously as though it were a bomb in his lap. Which, ouch. You let the pang of hurt pass, considering it’s transparent he isn’t exactly in the, er, best state of mind, while promptly ignoring the piercing voice in the back of your head that helpfully points out your own glaring trust issues. </p><p>“I don’t….” Steven says.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>Swaying downward elicits no visible discomfort, so you tell him, “It’s called a bracelet,” and Steven tells you, “I <em> do </em> have eyes,” and you tell him, “Can never be too sure, wonder boy,” which normally would trigger at least a cough, if not a vigorous shove, but with as far as he’s gone, only trembles the side of his mouth. </p><p>It’s enough. </p><p>You bend and kneel. </p><p>His skin is rough in most places, soft in others. His shirt collar is wet like he wiped his face into it or maybe blew his nose. The draft through the open door winds up his dark curls around his face like a portrait, and he watches you take his hand through hooded eyes that more resemble half moons beneath those long lashes, star-clumped by tears. The softness: over his knuckles, under his palms. His dazed gaze is no less intense for it, the slopes of his shoulders hitching taut as your fingers close around his wrist. You stop immediately.</p><p>Something indescribable flickers across his face at that, and he seems to really look at you. Then the breath rushes out, leaving him slack. </p><p>“Never knew we were gift givin’,” his voice is lukewarm. “That’s cheating.” His free hand arcs up in mimicry, closing gently around yours, and it’s a measure of pure grit that you somehow maintain your composure as your fingers interlock. Together, you both squeeze the bracelet clasp shut. </p><p>Steven exhales again, tracing the clefts of the sterling ornament delicately. You’re drawn along in his wake, the reverent wonder tipping by a hair over the brim of bewilderment, like you’d handed him literal gold. Like you’d ripped your sternum right out of your body and carved the bangle from the bone itself. Like the mere fact of the <em> giving </em>and not the token was worth something so persistently incomprehensible that the warmth of it seared right through your dough abdomen and you, you—</p><p>“Not a gift,” you speak to speak, because otherwise you might do something you can’t take back, “think of it like a souvenir.” </p><p>Now his cold hand was moving under yours, but the confusion doesn’t clear, and you sigh, scraping your nails over the lines of his palms lightly. “It’s like you were saying...you go to all these places and you meet all these different kinds of people. Memories. Stamps and symbols for everything in-between. This is me. It’s...mine. Keep it to remember me by.”</p><p>His pupils are wide this close, nearly swallowed by the dark.  </p><p>“Nightmare,” he says at last, wetly.</p><p>“Okay,” you say. No follow up, no expectations. How the turntables.</p><p>He smiles, and it finally reaches his eyes.</p><p>“Didn't wanna wake you,” he continues. Suddenly you’re back to the couch, the...<em> feeling</em>, the blanket thrown over your shoulders that definitely wasn’t there when you’d first sat. The realization warms your chest that much further. “But I couldn’t…” </p><p>He presses your combined hands to his lips in a purposeful motion that would have been amorous had he been another beside himself and you another beside yourself. The details weren’t for you to know, not unless he wished, and there would be no obfuscation then—<em> purposeful, Always</em>. </p><p>Glimpses, sure. Not principally only what’s shared, verbal or nay, but the holes in the mesh. Faulty chainmail. Wind. Dragging screams. </p><p>And all that broken glass inside him—his life story should have made him cutting. Instead it just made him <em> kind</em>. </p><p>“Righty-ho! You, young sir, need a break.”</p><p>There go the eyebrows. </p><p>“Do I now?” he postures, but the eyebrows are still escaping into his hairline.</p><p>You grin with teeth. </p><p>“Time for you to get to know the lake in Lake View.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
The river is a mellifluous lullaby given shape, green in some parts, translucent where the sun warps the water. </p><p>Post-noon air heat’s your only hint that a treacherous summer capers ahead. By and by a fretful wind drags along, chasing the budding spring even into its earliest ventures. And rolling off the surface, complaining at the humidity, the tentative breeze gathers with the froth at the banks to crash and break over the marshland, sinking into the wet earth. </p><p>It doesn’t take Steven long to point out the obvious. “This isn't a lake.”</p><p>You nod sagely. </p><p>Embedded in a bowl shaped area of land, the river bend pours over the few folk swarming the shallow like cold sweat. Quite a gathering out today, spotting the riverside with picnic baskets and tiny umbrellas and wet slaps of feet speed-shuffling in various destinations.</p><p>Steven isn’t giving in. “Why is it called Lake View if there isn't an actual lake?”</p><p>“Ever heard of Iceland? People are stupid.” </p><p>Reeling it back. </p><p>“So, I’ve been thinking.”</p><p>“Uh oh.”</p><p>You jab him in the side with your elbow and he makes an aborted <em> oof! </em> that dissolves into laughter. </p><p>“As I was saying,” you say casually, as if there hadn’t been any interruption, “why aren't you more impressed? Or surprised. Even a little.” You eyeball him suspiciously. “I doubt there are any rivers in Beach City.”</p><p>“Not in Beach City,” he agrees amicably.</p><p>It takes you a moment. </p><p>“No,” you groan. “<em>No. </em> Otherworldly planetary exploits are <em> against the rules.</em>”</p><p>He gives a helpless shrug. The groan rumbles out of you louder, amalgamating with the bass grumble of the motor. “Find us a spot,” you throw over your shoulder, still muttering woefully under your breath as you turn back to your car. </p><p>The time it takes to shrug off your mild disappointment sums to tugging your bag from the back seat and switching off the engine, which is to say, zilch. Steven either is very excited, or possesses space time abilities he hasn’t informed you of, because he’s already waving you over from all the way down shore. </p><p>You fold up your towel and pad over. Steven’s not waving when you arrive. Has he been breathing? He looks out over the water, like someone who'd just remembered something they'd rather have forgotten. </p><p>Your mouth opens to say...what you’re not sure, probably well intentioned nothings, but Steven seems to snap himself out of whatever funk he’s in unaided. And then, with no preamble, he honest to god whips his shirt right off.</p><p>Wow. </p><p>It’d be kinda dumb for you to be any flavor of surprised, as that’s, y’know, the general idea, but. Wow.</p><p>He looks good. He looks like something you’re not meant to touch. Stalwart and difficult and iridescent—no metaphor, quite actually bleeding a faint luster through his flesh.</p><p>He also has a giant rock in the middle of his stomach. </p><p>You try. You try <em> so </em>very hard.</p><p>Steven studies your constipated features for far longer than legitimately necessary. You get the distinct feeling you’re being punished. </p><p>Crow-feet crease like fabric, trenching your forehead wrinkles and shriveling up your mouth to a curdled purse between your ballooned cheeks—“go ahead,” Steven smiles. </p><p>You ask: where does gem meet skin? Heavy or unheavy? Is there a creative cleaning routine? How does he handle that without oxidation? Quartz? No, circular with a pentagonal facet. If you think hard enough you can see how that could be a diamond. Dimensions? Does the pointed end carve into his insides? (<em>“What?”</em>) Flexibility—crystalline yet malleable...Wait, you’re <em> out in public! </em>Can he even—!</p><p>“It’s fine.” He doesn’t make light of your panic, but the levity is present. “You’d be surprised what people don’t notice.” A flash of pearly whites. “Or, what they won’t ask about.”</p><p>You nod, still nervous.</p><p>His softens. “Trust me, we're good. I’m not always the weirdest one around.”</p><p>You ponder that statement. Glancing about finds the truth in it: still no New York City, but there’s enough diversity and yelling and eccentric hair to effectively drown out the cryptid standing next to you. </p><p>Placated, your attention returns to your previous fixation. “Can I…”</p><p>Terror darts across his face like lightning. Had you not been so intent in your observation, you’d have missed it entirely.</p><p>The intensity steals your breath away. “<em>Steven</em>.”</p><p>“It’s <em> fine</em>,” he repeats. His smile creaks a little too wide to be genuine. “Just…baggage.” The pinning sensation of his gaze roams over your stilled hand, your groomed nails hovering above his gem. Blunt, not wicked sharp. Chalky mint-green polish. “Easier to focus on the differences.” </p><p>Whatever blinding curiosity you carried previously is now seriously tempered by concern. You would prefer nothing less than to drop this entirely, but Steven looks like he’ll authentically die if you bring any more attention to this crack in his composure. There’d been more than enough crying today. Dropping the subject <em> would, </em> ironically, be drawing it to attention; you understand that, you do, so you stuff your apprehension in your pocket and very, very carefully touch his gem.</p><p>It’s him.</p><p>Well...half him, according to all the lore he'd drilled into your head. But him nonetheless.</p><p>Where beholding his narrative had reminded you of magical realism, anecdotal and impersonal, grazing his diamond flushes you with undeniable intimacy. You don’t imagine the way his breath hitches when your fingertips lightly brush over the top. The light in the center reacts to your tentative caress with warm, slow pulses below the pellucid surface, like a dull heartbeat. Warm gets warmer till it’s hot, broiling outward and up into your joints. You flatten your palm momentarily then turn it on a pivot, as if scooping waves roughly out of the air, spreading the backs of your knuckles. The...<em> presence </em> hums. It thrums once in perceived greeting, then recedes, supposedly hibernating, but you know different. It is not latent. It’s not stone, or mineral, or even earthly. It shares no semblance with a jewel other than that it <em> looks </em> like one. It’s him. It’s…</p><p>“<em> ...alive</em>," you whisper aloud.</p><p>You quickly glance up to see if he heard, only to register that his eyes are already trained on your face.</p><p>Steven regards you strangely.</p><p>“What?” you squirm, pulling back your arm defensively. </p><p>He hums, non-confrontational. “Nobody’s reacted to it like <em> that </em> before,” his scrutiny holds you for a spell longer, intelligent and bottomless and acutely soul-searching. Then he glances away, and you feel like you can breathe again. “Not even Connie…” he trails off.</p><p>You want to ask him who Connie is but think better of it. You say instead, “your friends?”   </p><p>“...what about them?”</p><p>With as open as Steven is, he actually isn’t. Took you awhile to figure that one out. </p><p>“I thought they were gems too?” you ask innocently.</p><p>His eyes narrow, like he knows exactly what you're doing. </p><p>With a flourish, you unfurl the towel and pinch the borders of its narrower side, whipping it out in a lingering float of pale orange. When it’s properly sprawled on the ground you drop like a stone, thrusting your legs out and slanting forward. Elbows braced on thighs, chin in hand, you parallel the picture perfect student. </p><p>He sighs.</p><p>A spirited shout from the water carries over on the breeze. He sits and crosses his legs. “It was a small town but there were humans obviously. The gems are the minority.” He pauses, rethinking. “Were. With the school, there may be as many gems as humans now. Maybe more. I...don’t actually know.” He doesn't look uncomfortable per say, but troubled. “Haven’t been back in… a while. Anyway, the humans knew. About me.” </p><p>You nod. “And?”</p><p>He stares. Gestures, “...and?” like he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. </p><p>Until he does.</p><p>He rubs a hand over his jaw. “They just kind of...accepted it?” He thinks really hard for a minute, as if questioning the sanity of his hometown for the first time in his life, before shrugging it off. “You know what they say about familiarity. Some of the gems were there long before me. They probably just got used to it.”</p><p>You nod some more. “It’s weird seeing you in slippers.” </p><p>Steven takes the abrupt transition in stride. “Shouldn’t be.” A deviant light blinks on in his expression. He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “I used to wear slippers <em> everywhere. </em>” </p><p>That’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. “No.”</p><p>He wiggles his little toes defiantly. “<em>Yes.</em>”</p><p>The towel snags on a patch of dirt. Steven twists to relieve the problem. His nude back is enviously silky smooth, barring the second half of it, which is nearly completely scar tissue. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>The disfigurement climbs up the nodules of his back in sharp angry lines, overlapping discolored stripes with blotchy, strategic breaks in otherwise flawless geometry. A ragged sprawling tapestry, rich but grotesque. You’d thought it was a tattoo at first glance; the symmetry marks too methodical to be a scar. But...no. You smell the pain.</p><p>What on earth, or <em> otherwise,</em> could’ve…. </p><p>“Thought you didn't scar,” you rasp quietly. </p><p>Now he <em> definitely </em> looks uncomfortable. </p><p>“I don’t want to talk about that.” The light in his face shuts off conclusively.</p><p>Good students do not press about these things. Neither do good friends. </p><p>“Race you to the finish line,” you pronounce, as if you’re decreeing it, and witness the delightful process that is Steven going <em> distressed-stunned-incredulous </em>before rocking to your feet and performing a running leap, clothes and all, into the frigid river. </p><p>The temperature is <em> bracing.</em> </p><p>When you break the surface, you’re gasping with it, alarmingly alert. Rivulets of ice-water drip down your cheeks, interrupted by a harsh swipe of your forearm from crown to chin. You <em> laugh.  </em></p><p>Steven is a blurry shape pacing on your teensy towel, hands scrubbing stormily through his hair. And okay, maybe you didn’t run so much as you quick-scurried (because slick surfaces, you’re not five) and maybe you didn’t leap so much as you attempted a swan dive that could only be so graceful since you had to shamble deeper beyond the shallow before fulfilling it. Hopefully having a front row seat to <em> that </em> embarrassment made up for your lack of tact <em>ohhhkay he’s made up his mind and is coming closer frighteningly fast— </em></p><p>You barely have time to shriek as his cannon-ball slam bangs into your territory, submerging you under water yet again. </p><p>Your arms come up first, then the rest of you, spitting and swearing. Steven guffaws, the world’s happiest grin eating his face.  </p><p>“You <em> suck</em>,” you holler emphatically. </p><p>Steven wades closer, into comfortable hearing range. He looks at home here in the water. “Do I have to worry about any creatures?”</p><p>“Yeah there's some snakes.”</p><p>Steven blanches.</p><p>“I’m messing with you,” you smirk, dodging a petulant swipe. “But really, you only have to worry about that further down.” You signal downstream where the creek cramps and dwindles into a trickle. “I suggest you don’t go over there unless you wanna lose a foot.” </p><p>“Very reassuring,” Steven deadpans. “I’m totally all for this.”</p><p>“Relax,” you drawl, bumping his slippery bicep with your shoulder. “You’re with a native.” </p><p>Steven’s intricate answer to that is to dunk you back under.</p><p>The two of you flit about for the next two hours, splashing and ribbing and sparring with non-existent weaponry. A couple bottom dwelling fish spook you now and then, then keep spooking you, since they’re all river-coloured. </p><p>The sun dipped below the treeline some time past. Most of the frazzled folk disperse into their cars and sputter away. Your skin is pruning a nice old man bedraggle when you finally decide to call it a day.</p><p>“Hey, you ready to—“ </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“What...what are you doing.”</p><p>“I’m not doing anything.”</p><p>“Your face,” you insist. Steven’s face squiggles that <em> complicated </em> again, and you point an accusing finger. “<em>That! </em>Why is your face being that!”</p><p>“Well that’s just rude.”</p><p>“<em>Steven—“ </em></p><p>He frowns, pretty eyes round and childlike and...sad, and you realize it’s <em> guilt.  </em></p><p>You don’t understand. </p><p>He reluctantly lifts an arm from the blue-green. </p><p>“I…” you squint. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”</p><p>“...yeah.” </p><p>Wait. </p><p>“I didn’t <em> forget, </em>you were running, and then—“ </p><p>“When?” you bark.</p><p>He bites his lip. </p><p>The water closes over your head. </p><p>Steven shouts something from beyond that distorts, thoroughly inconsequential as you cut deeper through the draught. </p><p>Water is always greedy. Here the current is murky and fast flowing; the rush in your ears contests only to hold your throat closed. Keeping your peepers wide open predictably stings, but discomfort discards itself to yield fruition. (Keep going.) The pressure seems unending, and worst of all, selfish. You know this like you know there’s a direct correlation between your advancing descent and the way your brain feels like an empty can of Pepsi, crushed and tossed. Heave-ho. Your grubby hands rip arbitrarily through the algae, cloudy bursts of yellowish-brown pulled up in your clumsy raze of destruction. <em> It can’t be gone.  </em></p><p>Frantic, your hand flails out. Pain slices through the haze. Hot. Sharp. You swallow a mouthful of silt.</p><p>A firm grip on the back of your neck yanks you up and out of the spray. </p><p>Steven doesn’t look sorry for the manhandling. In fact, Steven looks incensed.   </p><p>“What,” says Steven, “the hell.”</p><p>You’re too busy coughing and spluttering to respond.</p><p>More of the same: furious mother-henning over shallow sips of air, “So you get to embark on a grand adventure and I get to tread water and watch you not come up. Funny, that.” He cuts himself off and starts anew, intensified, “—next on the list, since when were you the expert on <em> drowning?” </em></p><p>"Oh." </p><p>There is blood in the water. </p><p>The dark miasma turns brown, then pink, then red, breaking up a long strand of cumulonimbus reflecting on the surface. You dimly observe the rapidly spreading crimson with the type of morbid curiosity afforded solely by impromptu paralysis. Absently, you’re aware of Steven going bat shit crazy in the general vicinity. </p><p>You're sitting now, five paces up the bank of the river. When did that happen? </p><p>“—think you're going into shock,” Steven’s saying. </p><p>He grabs your chin, forces your head upwards. The glazed defocus makes his anger look tired. There’s three of him.</p><p>“... fine. That’s...a lot of blood, I know, but—no, don’t look!” He tips your head back up from where it had begun to drift decisively. “You’re gonna be okay.” Though the water in your ears sells the effect that he’s talking from miles away, the concern mutilating his voice is enough for you to come back to this moment. You want to reassure him that you believe him, but the hand on your cheek is <em> shaking</em>, and suddenly you don’t think the affirmation is truly meant for you. “Y-You’re gonna be okay. Can I?”  </p><p>….what…? can he….</p><p>There’s a brisk snap in front of your face. </p><p>“C’mon, stay with me. I need a yes,” the voice is oscillating on desperate now. “You have to say it.”</p><p>“...Steven...” you say. Maybe. Maybe you said something else.</p><p>“Y’know what? I’ll take it.”</p><p>Your head lolls sideways, and a cupped ham clasps tight on your ear, creating a tight seal. Another hand lifts yours, or what’s left of it, the one that’s awash in a detached state of <em> redspineagony, </em>and gently, gently—“Sorry, there’s never a way to ease into this.”</p><p>Steven kisses you.</p><p>The postnasal drip...drips. Could be his hair. </p><p>Your palm. Steven kisses your palm. He bolsters against your calf for support, and very swiftly a lot more of your skin is touching, methodically slicking. The hand on your ear is pushing back and forth, pressing flat in the push and then bowling with the pull, until you feel the tension give way with a <em> pop! </em> You tilt your head to allow the water to drain, thinking treacherous things like, <em> he’s so close, </em> and, <em> it would be nothing to dip and press your mouth there, and there. Multi-tasker, </em> you’d tease, and he’d gnarl and say—and isn’t it funny, how you really do know what he’d say, how you can hear the shy hoarse cadence of it— <em> I grew up with the ocean! Don’t insult me.  </em></p><p>Steven’s tongue drags lazy as a jungle cat across your palm, the skin stitching itself back together like the pass of a zipper. His face is nuzzled into your hold, bloody fingers half curled around his jaw and cupping his clammy cheek. You feel like you’re in a dream. </p><p>Like this, you can explicitly feel the missing heat beneath his skin, that trivial dose of <em> wrongness </em>about it that has your misty brain raising its hackles. When you speak, the words are breathy, barely audible, “you’re cold.” </p><p>You almost reverently don’t want to break the calm, but for some reason your declamation doesn’t cease. “Not just now, but other times too.” </p><p>Steven’s voice is low, flowing out of him like a running stream. He tells you, yes, he tends to run colder than normal people.  </p><p>Hmm. Less of a memory than an effervescent impression of: that warmth, pulsing in ¾ time, soul cherry between the beats in the measure. “But your gem—”</p><p>“Hot,” he intones. “I know.” His lips traverse your sensitive skin as he speaks, curling your bare toes against the leathery rocks. Does it normally take him this long to heal? “Gems are technically hard extensions of light,” he teaches, like he has no idea the effect he has on you. “While there's all that power buzzing and living under the surface,” said power travels from the point of contact up through your nerves, tingling from end to end, “we’re still pretty much inorganic. So, cold. Optimally at least. My human half makes me switch t-through extremes, so I can get p-pretty,” you swipe your thumb carelessly across Steven’s lower lip. His eyes blow taffy pink, “overheated.” </p><p>(He hasn’t let go.)</p><p>You’re burning up, fever-bright. He’s beautifully opposite. </p><p>
  <em> You’re not ready. </em>
</p><p>“It's a good thing you caught me.”</p><p>The moment shatters. Steven drops your hands like an open flame.</p><p>“You need to be more careful,” he chokes, dressing back to give you space.</p><p>“Mmhm?” Whatever mojo-jojo he let loose in your bloodstream means <em> business</em>. You haven’t felt this rejuvenated in...you haven’t <em> ever </em> felt this rejuvenated. Your visión is sharpening at the edges like a goddamn bald-eagle. Holy shit. Are superpowers contagious? “Crisis averted,” you babble.</p><p>“That wasn’t a little boo-boo,” Steven insists, cryptically. “If I wasn’t <em> here… </em>”</p><p>“I’ll buy you another one,” you interrupt, glancing mournfully at the body of water that claimed your hard-earned sentiment. He hadn’t even gotten to break in the gift for half a day. “We’ll get a matching pair this time,” you add, unnecessarily. “Scrap that, we’ll get corny millennial walmart shirts. Yours’ll be like ‘I shall call him squishy and he shall be mine’ and mine’ll be like ‘I’m squishy.’”</p><p>Steven looks at you like you’re a closed-book exam.</p><p>He says, “Promise not to split your hands on any more sharp rocks, and we’ve got a deal.” </p><p>You look him right in the eye and slowly drag a dirt-caked hand across his face.</p><p>Steven splatters you with mud. </p><p> </p><p><em>This, </em> you think somberly, <em> is war.  </em></p>
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